


Less Broken

by hufflepuffhermione



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 79,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflepuffhermione/pseuds/hufflepuffhermione
Summary: Matthew comes home from war badly shellshocked, while Mary is reeling from the publication of her scandal. They both need to escape and heal. Perhaps, they can do so together.





	1. Breaking

Amiens, his last battle, is really no different than every other battle he's suffered through.  


His hands shake as he fastens his tie.  


That's normal.  


His eyes can't seem to focus.  


That's normal.  


He tries to give a rousing speech to his men. His voice shakes and when he begins to raise it, in an attempt to empower everyone, it cracks.  


That's normal.  


He is falling apart.  


That's normal.  


It has been normal since the begin of the war. He's just getting worse and worse at hiding it.  


This battle is normal, but it changes everything.

The world is really no different after Amiens. No major losses, no major gains. Most survive to fight yet another pointless battle.

After this battle, however, he is different.  


He doesn't have much recollection of it. Running out on a muddy field with shots and shells ringing around his ears, just praying that none hit him... it seems entirely indistinct from the last four years of his life.  


But he will remember Amiens.  


He wakes up in a prison.  


He wakes up in a hospital bed in a tent.  


He's horrifically sore, and his leg throbs with a vengeance, but he's okay. He's alive and he can move and all of his senses seem intact. He's going to be fine.  


Or so he thinks.  


He panics when he thinks he hears Germans. His heart drops in his chest and he tries to push himself up into a seated position but to no avail.  


His ears focus on the sound and he realizes that English is being spoken.  


He is not in a German prison.  


Rather, a prison of his own mind.

Such a prison is not yet apparent to him.

He blinks. His eyes focus on the bedside table next to him.

One minute, it's normal. The next, there are two black, beady eyes staring at him. Cold. Unblinking.  


He shivers.  


A rat stares at him, a large, grey one, the kind that take up residence in the trenches and bite all the men and eat all the food. One  has to kill the rats.  


He has no weapon, but he has his hands. And somehow he believes his hands will be enough.  


His eyes meet those of the rat, and he stares at it, without blinking. He is still. The rat is still. There is a standoff.  


He raises his arm and brings his fist down to hit it.  


He hits an empty bedside table.  


But the rat is still taunting him. He can't kill it. Yet he could kill so many other men who were innocently thrust into a war beyond their control.  


He raises his fist again to come down onto the rat. But no matter how good his aim, he still misses.  


He raises his arm multiple times, and brings it down again and again and again and again until it is aching and sore and red and the rat still won't die.  


With each smack of his hand against the table, he cries out louder. Someone will hear. Someone will help him kill the rat.  


Someone does hear. An orderly rushes in, hearing his cries, and comes to his bed and restrains his arm. "Captain Crawley," the orderly shouts. "What are you doing?"  


"The rat..." Matthew replies weakly. "He wouldn't die."  


"There is no rat," the orderly assures him.  


A head shake. "No. It was there. It was staring at me and then I couldn't kill it. I could kill so many men but I couldn't kill the rat!"  


The orderly tightens his grip on Matthew's arm. "There was no rat. You're safe now." He turns to a nurse who has walked in behind him and murmurs something. He turns back to Matthew and smiles. "Now sleep. We'll have you back to England in no time."  


The nurse joins the orderly at the bed and tips something cool and sweet into Matthew's mouth.  


Before he drifts off, Matthew notices the orderly take out a tag sitting by him and scribble something down.  


Probable shellshock.

* * *

She deserves this.  


She deserves to be sitting in this cold, uncomfortable, straight backed chair, nearly shrinking under the cold stare of Sir Richard Carlisle. She wishes she _could_ shrink, but Lady Mary Crawley would never do that.  


Then again, Lady Mary Crawley, or at least the Lady Mary Crawley that society knows, would never confess to something like this.  


She tells her story, and it is difficult, but every single torrid detail comes out. Time seems so slow. She asks him to save her. It is so hard, so humbling.  


Oh yes, she deserves this. She deserves to sit in this circle of hell, cold, unmoving, listening to the clock tick away, taunting her endlessly. Every minute is penance for what she has done.  


This is punishment for her idiocy.  


She has no one to blame but herself.  


She puts out of her mind Bates, and his wife, and how if they weren't on such terrible terms, she wouldn't be here right now.  
But then again, this situation is just giving her what she deserves.  


This is not Bates's fault, she reminds herself.

She tries to forget Edith. While Edith had no right to tell her secret, she has grown. And Mary recognizes that now, Edith never do it, if given the choice. So she will try to forgive, even if Edith doesn’t deserve it.

But Mary, oh Mary, she certainly deserves this.  


Richard, too, taunts her. He doesn't give her the grace of sitting, of looking into her eyes, of understanding. Instead, he paces in front of the window. It gives him power. This is his territory, he is marking it, and Mary is only there by his mercy. 

His eyes glitter coldly, a calm smile never dropping from his face. He isn't shocked. He is placid,  and if there is any part of him that is surprised, he hides it well.

He is completely in control, and Mary knows it, and she deserves it.

I deserve this, she says, over and over. I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve...

"No," Richard responds, derisive of her request. His clear voice cuts through her thoughts, no different than usual, so calm, so collected. 

The even tone angers her, but she calms herself. After all, she deserves this.

Still, the word stings. "I know it was quite a favor to ask," she says quietly. Her fingers clench into a fist inside her leather glove.

This is exactly the response she deserves.

"It is, I'm afraid," Richard says. He doesn't sugarcoat anything. He is still as even as ever. "But, Lady Mary, I believe you've done me a favor."

He waits for Mary to take the bait and question him, but Mary does not. For a second, she is in control. This calms her. This angers Richard.

His voice raises ever so slightly. "You've told me every detail of your sordid affair. I have this story straight from your own mouth. I don't even have to buy it. Of course, I'll embellish it. And it won't hurt me, not a bit. After all, we're breaking off any sort of relationship after this. I'm afraid I can't be seen with such a woman. This will only profit me. People are tired of hearing about the war, they want something new, something intriguing. This will sell papers, and that is what I am in this business to do. To sell papers.”

Mary's face almost falls. She keeps it steady. "I'm sorry?"

"A shame, really. We would have done well together, but a woman with such a past? If I do this, the situation is to my advantage. I'm sorry, Mary."

She stands. "You're sorry?" She is about to fight back, and then she remembers.

She deserves this.

She doesn't fight back.

"I am sorry," Richard says. His voice sounds so sincere that she almost believes him. "I almost loved you."

Mary turns her back to him. Almost is not enough.

But she deserves this. If this is her punishment for what happened with Pamuk, so be it. She'll be ostracized, she'll never marry, her family will find out... Papa will know. She gulps. Matthew will know.

She takes a breath and walks out of Sir Richard Carlisle's office.

She deserves this.

* * *

She doesn't leave London right away. If she gets on the last train, maybe everyone will be in bed by the time she gets home. Then she won't have to face them, not tonight. She'll have to tell them all, of course. It will hurt, but it will hurt more if they read it over breakfast.

But that can wait until tomorrow.

She wanders around London in a daze. In years past, it would have been a dream to have this much freedom. To trod up and down Oxford Street without a chaperone, to stare at the paintings in the National Gallery without being talked to by some stranger, or worse, some socialite that she knows, or that she should know. Any of this would have been a dream before the war.

But now she does it. Nobody gives a second glance to the young woman walking up and down the street, her head down, clad in a fine red traveling suit. Everyone else keeps their heads down too; eye contact only brings pain. They can't look at the wounded soldiers who silently beg on street corners, horrific reminders of a war that still hasn't ended. They can't look at the bright patriotic posters and flags that provide such a contrast to the gray day and the gray mood of London. They can't, and neither can Mary, and she blends in.

She makes her way to King's Cross eventually. She sits on a bench by the platform, far away from the southern bound trains and the sea of khaki uniforms. She can hear the clamor of young soldiers kissing their sweethearts, hugging their mothers, shaking hands with their fathers, for what may be the last time. Bile rises in her throat, and she wants to cry. But she can't. Lady Mary Crawley doesn't cry.

Then again, Lady Mary Crawley doesn't sleep with a foreign Turk, kill him (accidentally, of course), and then proceed to hide the evidence.

Mary is hit with a realization that this could be the last time she can comfortably show her face in London.

I don't care, she tells herself. I deserve this. I deserve this.

The mantra works, at least outwardly. Mary glances around the station, taking it all in. Before she can look too hard, a train pulls up, and the conductor calls for the passengers to board, and she is swept away.

A few soldiers board the train, most likely home on

leave. One smiles at her politely. He offers to take her bag.

She stares at his eyes. They're gray, stormy, like Richard's. The sight of Richard's cold eyes rejecting her only hope of salvation from her stupidity.

She pulls away from him.

The train chugs along toward Downton, and she tries not to think. She tries not to cry. She stares out the window and cannot see anything in the darkness.

Mary has never been afraid of the dark. Yet right now, she almost thinks she is.

* * *

Matthew has never been afraid of the dark. But he is, he is now, and wherever he is, it is dark and he is afraid.

He begins to breathe heavily. Where is he? Is he trapped? Did the dugout cave in? He's heard of that sort of thing happening to other regiments.

He blinks. Something is moving below him.

He blinks. There are other shadowy figures, wherever he is. They shift, slightly. They're alive.

He blinks. There are cracks of light coming from somewhere.

He blinks. The movement comes to a stop.

He blinks. Wherever he is, it fills with light.

"Captain Crawley," says a voice. It's not one that's he's heard before. It's calming, though. Almost. "Captain Crawley, shh. Quiet. You're alright, and we don't want to wake the others."

Only then does he realize that he has been screaming.

His mouth tries to form words. Questions. But he's just crying, yelling incoherently, and whoever is standing by him is keeping a firm hand on his shoulder and talking to someone else.

"You're on your way home to England," the voice says.

This should calm him. It doesn't calm him, and he doesn't understand why.

He is sedated for the rest of the trip home.

* * *

Somehow, Mary knows that something is wrong. She shivers.

The car rattles across the drive up to Downton and pulls up in front of the house. She knocks on the door, expecting a hall boy to answer it.

To her surprise, it's Carson who opens the door. The small optimistic part of her brain tells her that it's just Carson being Carson, wanting to wait up for her. But the grave expression on Carson's face, and the much larger pessimistic part of her brain, tell her something different.

"I'm glad you're home, milady," Carson says. His deep growl, usually so comforting, is unsettling to her.

Mary tries to force a smile. It doesn't work. "What's wrong?" she asks. She knows. It isn't cold, but she she's shivering.

"His Lordship would like to see you in the library."

Mary's heart pounds in her ears, like it used to do after jumping a creek on Diamond or after running around as a child. She hasn't felt the sensation in years, and it unsettles her. It used to have more pleasant associations. Now it does not.

She runs to the library, like she hasn't since she was a child. The light is on, and a small crowd of servants is gathered outside the door. They all make way for her, and Mary hardly notices them.

"What's wrong?" she breathes, again. Her question is directed at her father. He has the same grave expression on his face as Carson.

Robert takes her shoulder and leads her to the settee. Mary almost refuses to sit, but his look tells her that, for once, she should obey him.

"Matthew's been injured," Robert says. His voice is filled to the brim with emotion, and it's such a wonderful contrast to Richard's placid tone that she almost wants to cry in gratitude. Of course, she's so distracted by the words that her unconscious appreciation of her father's tone is just a subconscious registration of a hatred deep inside.

But Matthew. It's Matthew he's talking about, and Mary cannot think about anything else.

She thinks of how they used to flirt, how happy they used to be.

She thinks of how they danced at Sybil's ball, far closer than propriety would usually allow and far more happily than any other couple attending.

She thinks of how she threw away her chance at happiness because she didn't trust him enough. She didn't love him enough.

She thinks of how she lost him, lost him to another woman.

She thinks of how she sent him off to war. The little dog he carries in his pocket. Did it really bring him luck?

She thinks of how he would... how he will react to her scandal.

She thinks of how everything with Matthew is so complicated, so damn complicated and here this is, to complicate everything more.

She thinks of how much she loves him.

All other thoughts evaporate.

Love is that complicated and yet that simple.

"How badly?" she breathes. For the first time, she notices Mama and Sybil and Edith. They're all here, they must know, and they look at her with such sadness and fear

Robert presses his lips together. "We're not sure. He's coming back here, so it's serious enough for that, but we don't know anything further.

Mary closes her eyes. "I have more bad news," she says. She can't think about Matthew right now. She has this on her plate already. "Our house will soon be involved in scandal, and I'm afraid it's all my fault."

For the second time that day, Mary recounts the story of the Turk, and of her stupidity, and the time ticks away slowly again, and it's so hard, and once again, she deserves this.

Maybe she didn't get what was coming to her soon enough, and now Matthew is suffering, and she deserves all that suffering, and she damn well deserves this.

She knows it's irrational, but there's no other way to think.

"I'm sorry," she says, when she finishes. She doesn't look at any of them. She keeps her head down, like all the people in London, and she leaves the library.

She doesn't cry until she reaches her bedroom.


	2. Homecoming

Everything is fuzzy when he wakes up. The world seems to spin and he isn't quite attached to it. There's nothing keeping him grounded. Is he floating?

He looks around. Everything is still fuzzy, but at least he can make out the oak tree. He's under the big oak tree, at Downton, by their bench. He's by their bench. But if he's by their bench, then Mary...

Her face emerges over the picture. There she is. His vision is still blurry, but she is a sight to behold. He hears her voice, calling softly, "Matthew, Matthew." The last time her face was so close to his was ...when they had kissed (several times) at Sybil's ball. During the party they escaped onto the patio and kissed. They kissed the night after as well, but that was the last time.

He sees the patio, surrounded by a small but lovely London garden, and there's Mary, standing next to him, half drunk and giggling like he's hardly heard. It doesn't seem like Mary and yet it is wholly, undeniably Mary. She puts an elegant and warm hand on his rougher one and says his name. "Matthew." It's a laugh, probably. It looks like a laugh. He can't tell. His ears are ringing. But the way she smiles... He must have said something funny, and he begins to laugh too. They have the same humor, he's noticed, and when she laughs, it must be something funny.

But it's not funny.

She's in France. Why is she in France? She isn't supposed to be in France. She'll die. She'll be shot by the Germans, or blown up, and he'll never get a chance to redeem himself with her, for treating her so abominably at the garden party. He was stupid and self-righteous and it's alright if he never gets the chance to apologize before the Germans kill him, he deserves it, even if Mary doesn't. But he can't let her die. Her voice calls to him, and he can feel the fear in her tone. "Matthew, Matthew!"

He starts to yell for her, but she is too far away.

He starts to move, but there is a searing pain in his leg.

He starts to try to save her, but mud is clinging to him and he can't move.

A bullet comes out of a German gun. It is headed straight toward her.

Time seems to slow.

Everything becomes slower and slower, until he cannot discernibly move.

Then everything becomes black.

Perhaps he was never awake at all.

* * *

For so many years, she has imagined touching him. She's never said anything about it, not to a living soul. It is her secret fantasy, well hidden, but increasingly painful as every time she sees him, her dream seems  to slip further away.

Today, she touches him.

But not in the way she would ever have expected.

She comes down to the hospital early, before Matthew arrives, even before the nurses arrive. Sybil comes, maybe an hour later, and is surprised to meet Mary there.

Then again, it seems, Sybil can hardly meet Mary's eyes.

Before Mary has a chance to talk to Sybil, however, another truck full of soldiers pulls up in front of the hospital. Matthew has arrived. 

Mary can't breathe until she sees him, and she still can't breathe when she does. She takes  quick inventory; four limbs are still attached to his body, there are no obvious deformities, he's breathing. 

That's enough.

She finally breathes.

Another, more critical glance reveals things she never wished to see. His eyes are shadowed, although whether from exhaustion or bruises she can't say. His face is scratched, nearly beyond recognition. He is dirty, so dirty, but still pale underneath the mud. He is completely asleep.

She breathes, although there is no relief in such a breath.

The orderlies move him to a bed, beneath the windows. Pleasant as a hospital bed can be, with plenty of sunlight.

But there's no sunlight today. A steady rain drips down the windowpane.

Sybil finally meets Mary's eyes when they see him lying prone on the bed. "Will you help me clean him?" Sybil asks.

Mary steps next to her sister and nods. "Of course." She examines him again, and sees a tag hanging off of his pajama sleeve.

She picks it up and reads the cold, clinical handwriting.

Bullet in left leg. Possible concussion. Probable shellshock.

She suddenly can't breathe again. "What does this mean?" she asks Sybil. She understands the first sentence, and it makes her blood run cold. She knows the meaning of the second, but it doesn't have quite the same impact.

But the third?

She's heard of shellshock before, and of course it's nothing good, but to see such a thing written about Matthew...

"Shellshock could mean any number of things," Sybil says, in complete understanding. "Since he might have a concussion, he probably woke up, was confused and thought he was in the trenches, and so the doctor wrote that down."

Mary presses her lips together. She knows it's more than that, but she doesn't argue with Sybil. For once in her life, she wants to be wrong.

Sybil looks at Matthew and sighs. "Could you get some warm water? And towels," she asks.

"Of course," Mary says. She has never taken orders from her little sister, but this seems like an appropriate time to follow Sybil's lead.

Sybil gratefully takes the water and towels and places them on a table next to Matthew's bed. She puts a bottle of antiseptic on the table as well, and hands a towel to Mary. "Here, take your towel and dip it in the water, and just sort of... scrub away at the dirt. Gently, though. Do the same for blood, but if the wound underneath is oozing, apply some antiseptic."

Mary carefully applies the towel to his face, and the dirt begins to leave his skin. She looks up at Sybil expectantly.

"Good," Sybil says. "I have a few other patients to take care of, so if you don't mind doing this to his head and chest? Don't start on his legs yet, Clarkson might want to take a look at the wound first. If anything won't stop bleeding, there are bandages in the closet. Will you be alright?"

Mary nods, but honestly she's lying. She has never nursed before, and this is a baptism of fire. And it's Matthew. What if she hurts him? She feels her heart pound in her chest.

Nevertheless, she is determined. She pulls up a chair that scrapes against the ground and sits on it and begins to take the dirt and congealed blood off of his face.

She takes a glance to make sure Sybil isn't watching, to make sure nobody is watching. She allows herself to touch his face. She hasn't touched him here since they last kissed. It must have been right after Sybil's ball, when she touched him last. And his face is different now,  much thinner,  skin taut over sharp cheekbones, almost gaunt in appearance. He has two or three days of stubble dotting his face; Mary allows her hand to rest on it a moment too long. It's rough, and yet pleasantly so. Her fingers run softly over his lips. They are chapped, and Mary thinks of how painful they must be, and how wonderful to kiss them were when they were at Sybil's ball, and hiding in the garden away from the view of everyone else.

His face is clean, or mostly so, and Mary leans back to take a look at him. He's very pale, paler than she remembers, although part of that could be his injury. His eyes are still dark, and there are still scratches on his face that won't heal for weeks. His hair is still a mess; Mary notices that he must have lice. He is still so beautiful to her.

She moves to his torso, and a sharp breath escapes her when she realizes that she is taking off his shirt. This is more than she has ever done, and yet it's not in a context she would have ever wished. 

Mary slowly, reverently, unbuttons each fastening on his pajama shirt. Each reveals a little more skin, and a little more damage. His chest is already riddled with small white scars, or bigger ones, or red marks that are new.

She doesn't notice that though, not right away. Instead she notices how handsome his torso is, how defined his muscles are, how flat his stomach is. It isn't what she expected, and while she appreciates his definition, she almost misses the cherub-faced solicitor she fell in love with. She hates how the war has changed him.

Her fingers don't hesitate to touch the muscles of his torso and she moves a wet cloth across it, cleaning off any dirt, any blood, anything.

She feels his chest rise and fall as he breathes. Every breath seems to be taken in a rush of panic. She feels his heart; it beats quickly. She almost wonders if it is too quickly, but she pushes back her fears. This must be normal.

This situation is not normal.

She is touching him.

She has always wanted to touch him.

She never thought it would be like this.

* * *

His senses assault him when he finally wakes up.

First, he feels. He always seems to feel, much more than he should, but here, it is not just emotions that overwhelm him. There are cool, crisp sheets surrounding him, although they are thin and have threadbare spots. He can't be bothered to care too much. What he does care about, however, is his pounding head and his throbbing leg. He has never felt such intense pain before, but in a woozy sort of way; he doesn't cry out or wince or anything. He just lies there, convinced that it will go away. It doesn't. There is a hand in his hair, gently stroking it, but he is so focused on his pain that he doesn't notice.

Second, he smells. The sting of antiseptic in the stifling air. The stench of festering wounds. The smell of roses and lavender... odd in the setting, but he doesn't think much of it.

Because third, he tastes. His mouth is so dry, he can't remember the last time he took a sip of water. All he can taste is blood and the bitter aftertaste of a sleeping draught. He tries to open his mouth and his tongue touches his lips, and he tastes more blood.

Fourth, he hears. And this sense is one he's grateful to have, because what he hears is beautiful. He hears Mary's voice, lyrical and sweet, calling his name. In the background, he can still hear the screams of soldiers and the quiet hum of the nurses but he focuses on Mary's voice because that is all he can handle.

Finally, he sees. As his other senses told him, he's in a hospital. It's not a field hospital, he's home at Downton and in the hospital there. But as he blinks and allows his eyes to adjust to the light once again, he sees Mary, and he tries to smile.

All the feeling comes crashing down on him, and he is awake, and he can feel everything. There is pain, so much pain, that he almost passes out again. But he manages to stay awake, because he can feel Mary holding his hand.

"Where am I?" he asks. Or he tries to. His voice cracks and his thirst is still unquenched. Mary shushes him and pours a glass of water, and tips it back for him to drink.

He knows where he is, but he still needs confirmation that he isn't still in France, in the hell that is the trenches. Because he can't be sure. He's not sure that he can ever be sure.

When the water has trickled down his throat, he tries again. "Where am I?" he croaks. This time, he gets the words out.

Mary smiles and takes a towel to wipe his torn lips. "At Downton. You're back home," she says.

It's odd, he thinks. Something isn't right. Maybe he is back at Downton, but why is it Mary? Mary never would nurse him, Mary would never nurse anyone. No, this is wrong and he is still dreaming. Has he ever had this much feeling, this much pain in a dream before? He doesn't recall, but he doesn't always recall his dreams either.

"No, I'm not," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not, I'm dreaming. Tell me where I am!"

Mary blinks, her eyes concealing any sort of fright. "You're not dreaming, Matthew. You're awake. You've come home from France, and you're hurt, and now you're at Downton, and we're going to help get you better."

"If this is a dream, then why are you here?" he asks.

"I'm nursing you."

He licks his bloodied lips. "Where's Lavinia? Or Mother?"

"What?"

"Well, where are they?"

Mary blinks. "Lavinia is going to get on the train here soon, and Cousin Isobel was in France, but she's trying to get here as soon as she can."

Matthew's eyes are still brilliantly blue, and they glitter dangerously. "I'm dreaming," he says, convinced. "I'm dreaming and I need to wake up and help lead my men. Let me go! Let me wake up!"

She has no idea what to say.

Sybil is attending to a patient on the other side of the room, but she hears the commotion and rushes over. "Mary..." she begins.

"He woke up, but he's convinced that he's still in France and he's just dreaming all this."

Sybil puts her hands on Matthew's shoulders. "This isn't a dream. Calm down. Go back to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll be where you're supposed to be."

"Are you..." Matthew begins.

"I'm sure this isn't a dream. But if you go back to sleep, if you let this go from your mind, then you'll wake up again in reality."

Sybil keeps her hands on his shoulders until Matthew nods and closes his eyes, although his breathing is still quick and irregular.

Mary stands up and follows Sybil out of the ward. "What was that?" she asks, her eyes wide.

"That," Sybil indicates, "is shell shock."

* * *

Clarkson is by Matthew's bedside when he wakes maybe an hour later. Sybil has told him about the earlier incident, and he presses his lips together, looking concerned, but not overly so.

"Captain Crawley? Can you hear me?" Clarkson says. He is calm, almost too calm. He didn't see what happened earlier, he doesn't believe how horrible it is.

Matthew's eyes open, and Mary allows herself to stare at them. They are still blue; nothing could take away that bright blue. But there's something stormier about them, something colder. In the muted light coming in from the window, they almost look gray. Gray like Richard's... Mary gulps.

Clarkson nods when Matthew's eyes open. "Captain Crawley, you're back at Downton," he says cooly. "I promise you, this isn't a dream."

Matthew only seems to be half listening. His eyes are darting around frantically.

"I need to examine your leg, Captain Crawley," Clarkson continues. He pulls down the covers and Mary has to hold in a gasp when she sees how bloody his thigh is. Clarkson pulls the pajama pants down. Part of Mary knows she should look away, but she can't. His thigh is wrapped in bandages and Clarkson unwraps them gently. Matthew keeps wincing, gritting his teeth together.

Mary has an idea. She crosses around to the other side of the bed and holds his hand.

He doesn't seem to think much of this; he's too distracted by the pain. But he grips her hand and with every movement, he squeezes harder.

Her hand is beginning to ache but she barely notices. Matthew needs her right now, and she will be there for him.

"You're lucky this somehow didn't get infected," Clarkson says, pulling away the bandages. "Whoever dressed this had no idea what they were doing." He shakes his head and bends down to examine the wound.

Matthew says nothing. He stares at the ceiling, his light eyes blazing. 

"The bone was improperly set, it will need to be reset. And I'll need to take the bullet out," Clarkson said. "Nurse Crawley, prepare him for surgery, and I'll operate after I'm through with my rounds."

Sybil nods, and presses her lips together, and just keeps looking at Matthew sadly.

"Will he be alright?" Mary asks, the question pressing in on her far too much to go unheard.

Clarkson steals another glance at Matthew's prone form. "The leg should heal, at least mostly. There is of course, the fear of infection, but we’ll do our best to prevent that.. He'll probably end up with a limp, but nothing much worse. Really, I'm more concerned about his mind."

"The shellshock?" Mary asks, although there isn't much of a question in her voice.

The doctor doesn't say anything to confirm or deny her. He only replies. "The psychologist is coming in a few days, he'll be able to give you a better idea of what the issue is and where we can go from here."

"So there is an issue," she asserts. Her heart drops as she says the words.

"Mary..." This time it is Sybil, trying to stop her, but unsure of how.

Clarkson nods slowly. "What happened with Captain Crawley earlier is common in patients with shellshock. It may be a result of his medication, but that's rarer."

"He's so strong..." Mary whispers. Matthew has closed his eyes. Maybe he knows they're talking about him, maybe he doesn't, but he doesn't seem to have the strength to car. "How can this happen to him?"

"Shellshock is a new field, Lady Mary, and unfortunately there are many questions and few answers," Clarkson says. "We'll do our best for Captain Crawley, but please understand that sometimes a victim of shellshock will not be as you remember them."

Mary presses her lips together and nods. "Thank you, doctor."

Her gaze returns to Matthew, who is utterly still.

* * *

When she returns to the house, Mary says little. There is little for her to say. Robert, Cora, and Edith pester her for news about Matthew, but she allows Sybil to answer. Sybil knows better, of course.

Sybil, however, fails to mention the word 'shellshock'.

"He was a bit confused when he woke this afternoon," she says softy. As if 'a bit' is a valid qualifier. As if his 'confusion' was perfectly normal. Mary chokes on her breath, but says nothing. Perhaps Sybil is right. After all, ignorance is bliss.

"Was it just an effect of the medicine?" Robert asks. He seems naive, so naive, and Mary envies him.

Sybil meets Mary's eyes, just for a second, but it's enough, and Mary knows. Sybil is going to lie to them, to keep up a facade. "It very well might be," she says, trying to force a smile she very clearly does not feel. 

"But he'll be better?" Robert seems to believe it.

There's a sharp intake of breath from Sybil, but only Mary notices. "I think he's got a good chance. He took a bullet to the leg, unfortunately. Clarkson operated on him, and said he should recover, it just might take a long time."

For Mary today, that was the good news. When Clarkson pulled her aside, tearing her eyes away from a sleeping Matthew, and told her he was nearly sure to survive and regain at least some use of his leg.

Robert presses his lips together, and nods. For him, this is the bad news. "Well, I suppose we're lucky he wasn't hurt worse," he says. Mary and Sybil share a surreptitious glance as he continues. "We must give thanks for that."

Mary remembers his strangled cries, his frightened voice, and wonders if he really was so lucky.

She thinks of her toy dog.

Does Matthew still have it? Did he keep it? She figures he most likely threw it out or forgot about it, she figures. But part of her wonders if it's lost, lying on the battlefields in France.

If he had kept it, maybe he wouldn't be like this.

Mary sighs and begins up the stairs. She had been told Matthew probably wouldn't wake until morning due to the sedatives he had been put under for surgery. She needs to rest, as the day has been emotionally exhausting.

Sybil follows Mary up the stairs. "What happened to your hand?" she asked.

Mary hasn't noticed before now, but her hand is purple and blue and bruised. She only now realizes that it is painful. "Matthew," she says softly, looking it over. "He was in pain so... I tried to help him through it."

Sybil gives a tight-lipped smile, and Mary's heart drops. She has revealed too much, and Sybil knows. Of course, Sybil would never tell anyone, but still, Mary isn't sure how to face her sister now. "Lavinia is coming tomorrow. Edith arranged it," Sybil says. Mary can practically see Sybil's heart go out to her, and while she certainly has good intentions, Mary finds the tone hard to swallow.

"How good of Edith," Mary says, and even she is uncertain if she is being sarcastic or not.

"It was right," Sybil says, although obviously she's not sure. "Lavinia is his fiancee."

Mary blinks. "Richard was almost mine, and then he used me, horrifically, for his own financial benefit."

"I don't blame you," Sybil says. They are in Mary's room now, and Sybil doesn't ask whether she can come in, and Mary doesn't prevent her entrance. This conversation needs to continue. "For what happened with Pamuk, I mean. I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me, but..."

"Darling, you were sixteen when it happened. It wasn't something I thought that you needed to know, and I regret it, but..."

Sybil sits down on the end of Mary's bed. "It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was," Mary says. "I let him."

Sybil sighs. "I wish you wouldn't blame yourself. And I think Richard is an awful man for taking advantage of you like this."

"So do I, but I suppose I can't complain. I deserve this."

She says the words, and it is a comfort retreating to her old mantra, even if Sybil doesn't believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read! I hope you're enjoying it, and if you would leave a comment, that would really make my day! :D


	3. Realization

The next morning dawns bright and clear, and for one perfect beautiful moment, with the sun shining and the birds chirping, everything seems perfect.

Everything is far from perfect.

And yet Mary has a certain peace about her. She straightens her shoulders and steels herself and walks through the door of the hospital with heavy resolve.

Matthew is not awake, she sees as she makes a beeline for his bed and pulls out a chair to sit next to him, but he is stirring. And a few minutes after she arrives, his eyes flutter open.

"Matthew," Mary says softly. "How are you feeling?"

He looks calmer today, too. His eyes do not dart around frantically; instead, they focus on her face in an almost unsettling way. He blinks. "I'm..." The words seem to be thick in his mouth; he does not settle easily on any of them. "In Downton," he finally manages to say.

"That's right," Mary says. She tries to smile benignly. It means nothing, but he seems to be doing better. "Are you feeling better?"

He blinks again, and with every flutter of his eyes, Mary can see a bit of the old Matthew start to return. Or she thinks she can, and is so desperate to believe it is true. "My head hurts..." he manages to say clumsily.

"It was concussed." And perhaps that explains his confusion earlier, Mary thinks. She doesn't dare to hope though.

He just lies there, so unnaturally still, and it unsettles her. Finally, he says, "Water, please?"

She wishes she had realized before, that she had known exactly what he needed. She knows it is ridiculous, she isn't psychic, but she hates to see him in any more pain than he already is in.

She stands up to find him a glass of water when his voice starts again, creakily whispering, "Mary... yesterday..."

"You were confused yesterday. It was because of your concussion. We'll say no more about it," she replies softly. A weight lifts off her chest. He seems okay. 

He closes his eyes. "I was back there," he says. His lips have to work hard, and his words are dragged out and slow, but he seems to need to say this. "Everything... it feels real there. In spite of it all, I feel..." he swallows, "...I feel alive there. Here, nothing is real."

Mary reaches out to grab his hand. "Does that feel real?"

Matthew swallows thickly again. He doesn't say anything, but he nods his head slowly.

"Good. Now you know that I'm real," she says.

He listens to her footsteps as she heads to get water, and his mind slips into somewhere else.

* * *

It is too light. Too clean. It can't be real. He is in a dream, a waking dream where every part of him is aching, especially his leg, and he doesn't know how to wake up. His eyes are open, but he is certain that he is dreaming.

He is holding onto Mary. Her hand is in his. But it couldn't be. No, he remembers touching Mary's hands. They were usually so steady, and so cold. But her hands today are shaking, and they are warm, as if they have been sweating. And if Matthew knows anything about Mary, she would be ashamed to sweat. So of course that touch wasn't Mary's. None of this is real.

His eyelids are heavy and everything seems undefined and shaky, and not quite real. And it is too clean. After four years of mud and filth, he believes that nothing can ever be this clean. Maybe heaven is this clean. Maybe he is dead.

But he does not deserve heaven. He has killed too many men without remorse, how could he be in heaven? He deserves to be in hell. And to him, hell is the trenches, with the screams of the men he has killed. 

He can faintly hear the screams. Some are shrill, some are more pathetic whimpers than anything else. He tries not to listen to them, but everything is becominglouder and louder. They are coming for him, he can hear. They are coming to get their revenge on him. He stole them away from their families. Some of those men were fathers, with children, who deserved to live just as much, if not more than he. But no, he selfishly took their lives and now he is paying the price.

He stares at the ceiling. If he stares long enough, it becomes the gray and brown sky over the trenches. He is back in the trenches, and he can see them over him. All the faces he has witnessed. All the men he has killed. He is trapped by them, and he cannot move. They all stare at him, but they do nothing. It is worse torture this way. He can barely breathe, he is so overcome by emotions of remorse.

The sky is still its murky gray, and he is laying in the mud of the trenches, and he can hear the voices and the screams of the men he has killed, and then...

A loud crash shatters him completely.

* * *

"Damn," Mary mutters, picking up the pieces of the now shatteredwater pitcher. It had slipped from her now sweaty hands as she had shakily tried to pour a glass of water. A few soldier recoil from the noise, and she gives a cursory glance over to Matthew's bed. He is rigid and shaking.

An orderly comes by with a broom and a dustpan and a dirty look. Mary avoids eye contact but nods gratefully and makes her way back to Matthew's bed.

His eyes stare straight at the ceiling. They are such a bright blue and yet there is no color to them. Mary stands over him, silent for a few minutes before sighing heavily.

"Matthew," she says softy. "Matthew, you were alright. You're still here. Come back to me."

He doesn't respond. His mouth is forming words but no sound comes out. He is trying so desperately but cannot do anything.

Without really thinking, she slips her hand into his again. "That's real," she whispers. "Feel me. Remember that this is real."

A sound finally comes out of his throat. "Not... real."

Her heart sinks. "No, this is real, Matthew. You're here. You're home. You came home to me and you're real and I'm real. Feel me, I'm real."

He blinks quickly. Too quickly. If Mary thought the intense staring was disconcerting, this is even more so. "Not... like you," he manages to say, and it hits Mary.

"I'm supposed to still be mad at you, aren't I?" Mary says, a note of humor in her voice. His eyes are fixed on her. Mary ignores the pit in her stomach and continues. "I am a little bit mad at you, that you managed to get yourself so hurt. And you hurt me, yesterday," Mary says, holding out her other bruised hand for him to see.

Apparently, this was not the right thing to do, because he begins to breathe heavily again. "No, don't worry," she says. She slips her hand into his again. "I'm not too hurt. Not as badly as you, anyway. And truth be told, I'm still mad at you for what happened before the war. But none of that really seems to matter now. The war has put everything in perspective and I'm just glad to have you home."

He seems to relax. "I'm... home," he says slowly, and he begins to look like himself again. 

"I'm sorry if I scared you with the pitcher. Did I?"

He nods, although it seems to cause him pain.

"I'm sorry. I'll go get you a glass of water, and this time, I won't break the pitcher."

For the first time since he's been home, he smiles. It isn't much of a smile, but it's completely real, and Mary smiles back.

* * *

The next hour is almost normal. She helps him sit up and drink a glass of water, and he accepts it gratefully, licking his lips and staring at her with those bright eyes of his. They seem almost alive again.

"Could I have... something to eat?" Matthew asks. His voice is still shaky, but it's there.

Mary pats his hand gently. She's found that he responds well to the contact, and so she keeps doing it. What is the harm of doing so? He's just her cousin, and she is helping him keep sane. "Of course. You must be starving. I'll find some toast."

"Thank you," he says softly. For the whole time she is gone, he clenches the sheets of his bed so hard that his knuckles turn white. They're real, he tells himself. I'm here, everything is real. A few times, he feels himself slipping, but he digs his fingernails into his palm and reminds himself that Mary is right, he is not dreaming.

Mary comes back with a plate of toast, obviously pleased to see that he is still himself. "It's dry, I'm afraid, but you're on a lot of pain medication so I doubt your stomach will be able to handle much more than this anyway."

He inclines his head gently. His eyes are still colder, not quite him, but they are warming. He takes a bite of the bread and swallows. "Thank you," he says again. What else can he say? He doesn't deserve to be cared for, not like this, not by Mary. And yet here she is.

There is so much that he doesn't deserve. After the war, after killing so many innocent men.

He digs his fingernails into his palm again, to bring himself back to reality.

He draws blood.

Mary notices. "What did you do?" she asks, picking up his hand in hers. "Here, let me get a bandage for you."

His hand is unsteady as he pulls it up from where Mary left it. He looks at the hand, stares at it until the little streams of blood look like veritable rivers, and then, he's back again. The peace is over; he blinks and he's back in France.

Over on the other side of the ward, Lavinia arrives. She is not prepared for what she sees: Matthew, looking weak and pale, his hands bloody, his eyes wild, beginning to shout obscenities of war. 

Matthew glances around. He is laying in the mud. The screams of soldiers are everywhere, he can hear them moaning. The Germans have done their work well, killed them enough to ensure their eventual deaths, but not enough to make it painless.

He is one of the lucky ones again.

Until he sees a German walking right over him. Leaning down to glance at his face.

He reaches for his gun, but discovers that he has no gun. He has no weapon at all. He is helpless.

Instinct takes over, and he balls his hand into a fist.

The punch is quite impressive, landing hard and blacking the German's eye.

Except the German's cry of shock and pain is strange. It sounds effeminate, womanly. It sounds like...

Lavinia.

Her gasp of sorts brings him back.

He closes his eyes, and opens them again.

The bruising is already showing up around her eye.

* * *

Regret immediately fills his chest.

"My God, Lavinia," he whispers.

Lavinia stares at him like a lost lamb, her eyes large and her heart confused.

He presses a sore hand to his head. "You're... I thought you were a German. I am so very sorry."

She doesn't say anything, and this puts him even more on edge.

His old self would never have done this to her. He is not his old self now. And he hates the man he has become.

He waits, frozen in time, afraid, unsure, and feeling so broken. He stares at her, willing her to say something, willing her to be angry. After all, that is what he deserves.

She says nothing.

Finally he has to tell her.

"The man you were engaged to... I'm not him."

Her eyebrows draw together. "Matthew..." It is her first word, and he can't quite ascertain what she means by it. She sounds regretful, resigned, but not angry. No, she is not angry, and there is a part of Matthew that more than anything wants her to be angry. She tries to plaster on a smile, but it is obviously fake. "You didn't really hurt me."

"You're lying," Matthew says, and it comes out a lot harsher than he intends it to.

Lavinia takes his hand, the bloody one. "Is this..."

"I don't want to talk about it," he snaps. “He’s dead. The man you were engaged to is dead. And I can’t possibly take his place.” 

“Matthew, please…” she begs.

He shakes his head. He is so close to tears, but he has to control himself. “No. You have to leave. I can’t do this to you.”

Her eyes, so innocent and wide, narrow. "I'm not just going to let you push me away."

"I punched you. Next time, I could kill you. I don't want to, not at all, but... I'm changed. I'm not the same man at all, and my mind is not my own. It's half back in France and I can't pull it out of there," he says.

Mary comes back with the bandage, and sees Lavinia, her blackened eye, and a distressed Matthew.

"What happened?" she asks.

Lavinia closes her eyes. "Matthew doesn't want to marry me anymore. Because he says he isn't the same man."

* * *

Mary's world begins to spin. As much as she tries to bear no ill will toward Lavinia, she still harbors feelings of jealousy that are perfectly natural considering Lavinia is engaged to… him. But not anymore, it seems. Perhaps it is better this way, perhaps this is even good.

And she looks at Lavinia's face, wide-eyed and distraught, and Matthew's face, his eyes wild but his mouth set firmly in a frown, and knows that this is not good.

And Matthew realizes that he is shellshocked.

"I hurt her..." His voice shakes and the more cheerful Matthew of the last hour is completely gone. "I thought she was a German and then..."

Lavinia doesn't know how to process any of this. She says nothing.

"Lavinia?" Mary asks, placing a hand on her shaking shoulder.

A small shake of the head, and finally Lavinia's voice makes itself heard. "You seem to think I'm so weak. But I've seen soldiers with shellshock. And I know I can help you heal."

"Sybil told you about the situation," Mary says. 

Lavinia nods. "And I'm not afraid."

"But I am." This comes out, barely a hoarse whisper, from Matthew's dry, cracked lips. "I'm scared of hurting you."

"You just need time to process all this," Lavinia says.

Mary puts a soft hand on Lavinia's arm. "I think you do, too. Why don't you go and unpack? I'll keep an eye on him."

Lavinia looks positively thrilled to have an excuse to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere of the room. "Yes, I think I'll do that. Thank you."

* * *

Matthew watches her leave. Her shoulders slump, her eyes stare at the floor, and her steps are meek, not confident. He feels everything: the shame, the guilt, the fear, the anger. He wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to let out all this emotion that has overtaken him.

But a wave of numbness hits him.

Matthew knows numbness. In the trenches, they had become well acquainted. He had perfected detachment; how else could he justify all the killing? And this numbness is much the same.

Along with it comes a panic, one that should be contradictory but instead fits perfectly well. His heart begins to beat harder and he realizes what has been triggering him, throwing him back to France on the wings of his damaged mind.

The numbness.

He can't control it. It seems to be overtaking him. He can't think. He knows what is coming, and this fear, this anticipation, it is almost worse than the flashbacks.

He does the only thing he can think of.

He grabs Mary's hand and squeezes it.

She squeezes back, and his relief is absolutely palpable. There's still numbness, a freezing of his brain that prevents him from sobbing the way he really desires, but he's aware and Mary's touch keeps him on earth.

"Are you alright?" Mary asks. She isn't sure what she expects for an answer.

"No," he whispers bluntly.

There's still a chair pulled up next to the bed but Mary ignores it entirely and sits on the side of the bed.

He feels it dip down by his thigh and then her warmth touches him. He closes his eyes and for once, he does not see France. Instead it is just blackness, and that blackness is comforting.

"She loves you," Mary says, although she isn't sure why she's saying this. Maybe she isn't talking about Lavinia. Maybe she's talking about herself. She doesn't even know, and she pushes the thought out of her mind.

Matthew opens his eyes again, and the real world encroaches. "I hurt her. I can't... I know I'm not the same man. She may have loved the man that came before me, but he died out there on the battlefield."

Mary clasps his hand in hers. "No. He's still in there, you're still here. He may be hidden behind a wall of trauma and buried in the depths of whatever you experienced out there, but never think you're not still you."

"Would I... would he have ever hurt Lavinia like that?" He murmurs bitterly, his voice low.

"The fact that you feel so awful about it just proves to me that you're still the wonderful and honorable and stubborn man you were before you went to France."

He closes his eyes. "I just... I don't feel the same."

"You're not the same, but you're still Matthew."

"Just a far more broken Matthew." He nearly chokes on his own self loathing, his voice is so rough.

She bravely reaches out a hand and brushes his still dirty hair out of his face. "Lavinia wants to help put you back together. So do I..." Realizing how intimate her words sounded, she adds, "So does the whole family."

"I want her to leave."

"Matthew..."

There are tears that are beginning to fall from his eyes but he ignores them and Mary is sure he would rather she ignored them as well. "No. I can't subject her to this. I... I don't love her enough and yet I love her too much. I don't love her enough to let her throw away her life like this, and I love her too much to let her throw away her life like this. Look at me, an accidentally abusive fiancee. Seeing visions, thinking everyone who loves me is out to kill me... I can't even walk right now. Lavinia can do so much better, she can find someone who loves her more and is far more worthy of her. So I want her to leave. Will you tell her that?"

Mary is about to respond indignantly. How dare Matthew make her dissolve his engagement for him? But she knows Matthew has tried. And one glance at his tear streaked face tells her just how fragile he is. He doesn't know how he's hurting her. He doesn't know how he's hurting Lavinia. But he knows that he's doing it, and he wants to stop the hurt.

"I'll make your wishes known, although I think she's already aware."

He sighs heavily. "I'm just... I'm so scared. Logically, I know I'm here, I know I'm alive, but... there's still so much of me back in France. Clarkson doesn't understand, so don't put too much stock into anything he says about it. I know they're sending an army psychologist out, too, but what does he know? They haven't been out there, they don't... understand."

Mary squeezes his hand. "Don't feel bad, or ashamed for it. There are thousands of soldiers suffering from shellshock and it isn't an indicator of strength or bravery. It just is what it is."

"I tell myself that but..."

She doesn't know how to respond to his despondency. She thinks of Richard, his cold eyes staring right into her soul. And yet Matthew has it so much worse, with the cold eyes of war taking over his soul. She thinks of her familiar mantra. But it doesn't apply to him. "You don't deserve this," she tells him. 

"I killed men, Mary. Innocent men, innocent boys even. People with mothers and fathers and wives and children and brothers and sisters and... I robbed all of them of someone they loved. At the very least, I deserve to have them haunting me."

He is so different now, hard and cold and definitely not the Matthew she knew. He's... he's so much like _her._ Mary used to believe they were polar opposites in terms of personality, only equally matched in stubbornness. But here he is, saying her mantra.

I deserve this.

I deserve this.

The thought haunts both of them and Mary doesn't know what to tell him. She can't quite comprehend what he told her. Of course, Matthew killed people, he was a soldier. That was his job. But she can't reconcile that with the Matthew she knows. For a second, even she begins to think that the Matthew before the war and the Matthew now are different men.

She doesn't let herself fall into that trap though.

"War is not... war is different, Matthew. You were following orders."

"I signed up," he says. "I signed up to go out there and kill men. Maybe it would have been different if I had been drafted in, but no... I bought a commission and went out there to go kill men. I chose it, Mary."

"I don't think war is ever a matter of choice," she says, brushing another stray hair off of his forehead.

He closes his eyes, relaxing under her touch. "I'm going to try to sleep, I think," he says. He hesitates, then mutters, "I'm just... I'm afraid if I fall asleep, I'll be back there again."

"I'll stay here," Mary whispers. "If you look like you're having a nightmare, I'll wake you up."

A ghost of a smile appears on his face. "Thank you," he says, and it is with a surprising conviction that he says it.

* * *

It is late afternoon and Matthew awakens peacefully, his hand still in Mary's. "You should go home," he tells her. "At least go have some dinner, go get some sleep."

"Dinner," Mary says quietly, "But I'll come back here." She smiles at him and leaves, and Matthew feels like something is missing when she is gone.

He glances toward the foot of the bed.

"Captain Crawley," Clarkson says, holding a clipboard and looking very serious. "I hope you slept well this afternoon?"

Matthew nods. "Better than usual, I think," he replies.

"Good," Clarkson doesn't look at Matthew, but keeps glancing through his notes. "You're probably exhausted from fighting; most soldiers that come in here are sleep deprived. So don't worry if you sleep more than you normally would."

Matthew thinks to say something about how difficult sleep is with the sort of nightmares that haunt him, but he thinks better of it. Clarkson cannot help him heal his mind.

Clarkson finally looks up from the notes and pulls the blanket down to Matthew's ankles. "How does your leg feel?"

"It's pretty much constantly throbbing," Matthew replies, with a nonchalant tone. "But of course, it's expected to be painful, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course. I'm going to keep you on bedrest for the next week at least; I don't want to plaster the leg until the bullet wound is more healed. Then you'll be on crutches for quite a while, I'm afraid. No weight-bearing at all. Three months is my best estimate at this point. Don't be discouraged by that, we want it to heal as well as it possibly can. It got fractured pretty badly."

Matthew nods. "I understand."

"The army psychologist is coming out tomorrow. Don't feel intimidated by that, he wants to help you get better too."

"Because my mind is broken," Matthew mutters.

Clarkson looks at him with sad eyes. "I wouldn't say that, Captain Crawley. You went through some horrors out there and it's only natural that they should affect you."

Matthew almost laughs, although there is a cynicism, a bitterness that stands behind it. What does Clarkson know, really? He wasn't there. He doesn't know. Matthew isn't sure how to respond, however. "Of course," he says quietly.

"And, of course, it does appear you were concussed when you fell on the battlefield. Not too badly, thankfully. I'd advise rest for that, which shouldn't be a problem for the next week."

Clarkson knows nothing, and Matthew tells himself this, but he can't keep himself from asking a question. "Do you think the concussion might have caused the shellshock?"

"I'm not sure, Captain Crawley. It could have been a contributing factor. Shellshock is a difficult field, as we know so little about it."

Of course. Clarkson knows nothing.

* * *

Someone else returns later in the evening, but it isn't Mary. Nor is it Lavinia. It is Isobel, looking so glad to see him and yet so frightened at the same time.

He doesn't say anything as she approaches his bed. His lips are tight. He does not smile, he does not frown. He stares at her, his eyes cold, unblinking.

He is numb, and holding back tears that are threatening to flow.

"Matthew," Isobel says, quickening her steps toward him. "I'm so glad you're home." She kisses his forehead and sits next to him.

There is something in her kiss that unlocks the floodgates, and the next thing he knows, he is bawling. "Mother," he whispers, before wracking sobs take him over. 

"Shh, shh," she soothes, running her hands through his hair, and it almost feels normal again. It almost feels right. "You're alright. You're home. You're alive. That's all I care about. And everything will get better, my darling boy."

He doesn't stop crying for quite a while, not until his lungs are exhausted from the heaving of sobs and his cheeks sting from the wet tears and his eyes have no more tears to cry. "Did they tell you? About how I am?"

"The concussion should heal without any issue and as long as you're careful, your leg should heal mostly normally," Isobel tells him. Her fingers run through his hair, just like they did when he was a little boy.

Matthew bites his lip. "That isn't what I meant."

"The shellshock," Isobel says. It isn't a question. 

He nods painfully.

Isobel doesn't stop touching his hair, and Matthew is glad, because that is all that is keeping him grounded. "Mary and Clarkson told me bits and pieces. And you broke it off with Lavinia?"

He looks down toward his feet in shame. "I hit her, Mother. I can't marry her when I'd be physically abusive to her. I didn't mean to, but I hit her. I thought she was a German and... I don't think I'll ever be fit to marry, not when I keep going back there."

Isobel wants to pepper him with questions but she abstains. Instead, she whispers, "It's only going to get better, my darling."

"I'm so tired," he says. "But whenever I close my eyes I'm back there. This has been such a long day though. I can't live like this."

She wraps her arms around his head. "I'll get you a sleeping draught. This is the worst of it, it'll get better."

* * *

Mary meets Isobel in the hallway of the hospital.

"He's asleep," Isobel tells Mary. It is their first exchange, but Isobel has heard of all that Mary has done, and Isobel knows why. "I gave him a sleeping draught so hopefully he won't dream tonight."

Isobel's brusqueness and lack of greeting might have offended some but to Mary it is comforting. Mary tries to smile. "You might as well get some sleep then. You've come a long way."

It is hard to argue with Mary's logic, but Isobel does. Her own argument is not logical, but strong. "I can't leave him. I need to assure myself... that he's alive. I've heard all that you've done for him, perhaps you should get some rest yourself."

"Are you sure you're fine staying here? I'll come back in the morning." Mary asks. Maybe it is uncommon for her to be so concerned for the feelings of others, but as far as she cares, at this moment, Isobel is an extension of Matthew and everything must be done for Matthew's benefit.

Isobel nods and puts a hand on Mary's arm. "I will be fine. Thank you so much. For all you've done for him."

"It's nothing," Mary brushes off.

As Mary turns to leave, Isobel mutters, "It's the very opposite of nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely people, for reading this! I hope you enjoyed!


	4. Diagnosis

The psychologist is a bulky, bearded man, the opposite of the small, thin scholar that Mary had expected. However, he seems fairly adept. His voice is soft, and he goes to the beds of soldiers who need him, speaking quietly and scribbling notes on a little notepad.

He comes over to Matthew's bed. "Good morning, Captain Crawley," he says, sounding a little bit too cheerful to the situation.

It has been a quiet morning, almost a peaceful one, although Matthew has been sullen and hardly responsive. He barely lifts his eyes before muttering a spiritless "Good morning."

The psychologist turns to Mary and holds out his hand. "Mrs. Crawley?"

"Oh, I'm not..." Mary begins, and she can feel Matthew's eyes snap to her. "I'm not his wife. His cousin, actually. Lady Mary Crawley."

The psychologist blushes slightly. "Pardon me, Lady Mary. I shouldn't have assumed. In any case, I'm Dr. Carter."

"Thank you for coming," Mary says. The awkwardness of the discussion is causing Matthew to tense up, and Mary puts a hand on his shoulder to relax him.

"Of course," Dr. Carter replies, pulling up a chair. "Captain Crawley, Dr. Clarkson has told me you're having a difficult time coming home."

Matthew shakes his head. "That would be an understatement."

Dr. Carter and Mary raise their eyebrows in unison. "He diagnosed you with shellshock. Now, that's a tricky thing to diagnose, and an even trickier thing to treat. But I'm just going to talk to you for a while, get a sense of what's going on, and then I can see if I concur with Clarkson and we'll go on from there."

The notepad is turned to a new page, Mary notices, with a few words scribbled on it.

_Captain Matthew Crawley, age 33_   
_Diagnosed with probable shellshock_   
_Suffers from nightmares and hallucinations_

Matthew finally lifts his eyes to look at Dr. Carter. "I don't believe there's anything you can do for me."

Another note is scribbled on the notepad.

_Hopelessness/depression_

"You have such little faith in medicine."

"My mother is a nurse, my father was a doctor. It didn't save him from dying young, though. His heart gave out when he was just past fifty."

_Cynicism_

Dr. Carter pressed his lips together and says, "Tell me about how you got injured."

Mary notices the immediately haunted look in Matthew's eyes, and obviously, Dr. Carter does too, because the pen makes a scribbled note again. Thousand-yard stare "It was at Amiens," he says slowly. "But ...I can't quite remember what happened. I know I was in the dugout, about to go over the top, and then... I was in the hospital."

_Memory issues._

"How was it for you, coming home during the war?"

Matthew sighs. "Not as bad as some. It was too quiet." He tries to blink away the haunted look. "It just... it doesn't feel real."

_Augmented sense of reality._

"It doesn't feel real here?"

"When I was out there, I felt alive. It was an awful existence, but at least I felt like I was alive. It's hard not to, with the bullets whizzing by you and shells under your feet which could explode at any minute... Here, there isn't that feeling, that rush that reminds you that you are alive, however precariously."

"Do you think at all about what your life will be like? In the future?

" "I couldn't think two days ahead of myself when I was staring death in the face. I don't even know what the future is anymore."

"You mention death quite often... did your experience change your view on it?"

Matthew's eyes grow even more haunted than they were before. He stares straight ahead, unblinking, cold. "At the front, men pray to be spared, of course. But if that is not to be, they pray for a bullet to kill them cleanly. And to live, but to be reduced like so many who are injured are... sometimes you wonder if life is really worth it. Sometimes I think the only way we can escape the war is death. Otherwise, it haunts us in everything we are. Sometimes, I think it would have just been better if I had died out there."

Mary is chilled by his words. She is even more chilled by the words that Dr. Carter scribbles down.

_Possibly suicidal_

She almost can't breathe, listening to him, looking at the words. It hurts her, to think that after all that Matthew has survived, he might not want to survive.

"Captain Crawley, you do realize how lucky you are to have survived?" Dr. Carter asks. He does not look perturbed, but he is very gentle. He knows what he is doing and he does it well.

Matthew slowly turns his eyes to the psychologist. "I know," he finally says, in a strained voice. "It's thanks to William."

"William?"

Matthew begins to get choked up by emotion and he looks to Mary for help. Mary, despite her own emotion, says, "William Mason. He was Matthew's batman, and a footman at our house. He was injured in the same battle that Matthew was, and it appears that his injuries are not survivable."

"He was saving me," Matthew says, his voice little more than a whisper. "He is so young, he has so much life in him... and now he's dying because he saved me."

_Survivor's guilt_

Dr. Carter presses his lips together. This is, apparently, a sort of story he's heard before. He knows all he needs to know on that subject, and he swiftly changes course. "Captain Crawley, how have you been sleeping lately?"

"Not well," Matthew admits, sounding utterly defeated and worn out. Mary wants to send the psychologist away, to protect him, but she knows that he needs this diagnosis and this help. So she lets him continue on when he is prompted. "Whenever I close my eyes, it seems, I'm back there again."

_Nightmares_

"Do these only happen when you're sleeping?"

Matthew remembers the Lavinia incident of the day before and shakes his head.

_Flashbacks_

"What do you think triggers these?" Matthew's face crumples and he shakes his head, trying to fight off tears. "Dammit, I don't know. I feel like an idiot, for being like this."

_Volatile emotions_

"One of them happened when he heard a pitcher drop and shatter yesterday," Mary says. "Another one happened when he saw blood on his hands."

_Reactive to loud noises_   
_Triggered by things associated with war_

"How many of these flashbacks have you had?"

Matthew sighs, trying to compose himself again. "I've only been back at Downton a few days, but I've probably had four or five... Apparently, they kept me very sedated on the way back because every time I woke up I thought I was in France again."

_Frequent flashbacks_

"There's no common thread with all of these?"

"Numbness," he whispers. "If I let myself go numb, if I try not to care, if I try not to think, which is exactly what I had to do in the trenches, I'll slip back there. I did it to stay sane there, but fat lot of good it does me here. But it's so hard, when everything is so painful."

_Numbness triggers flashbacks_

"How do you feel about going back to civilian life?"

Matthew's eyes glaze over and his hands begin to shake. "It won't leave me," he whispers, his voice shaking as well.

_Physical shakiness_

"You're alive, and you're going to recover. In that, there's a way to leave behind the war, isn't there?"

"You weren't there," he whispers. "And the man I was before the war... he died out on the battlefield. I'm not the Matthew Crawley they all knew. I'm irrevocably changed by it. I'm different, I'm..."

_Identity crisis_

Mary puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No. You're not a different person. You are him, maybe changed, but still him. And you know what? I'm determined to find that Matthew within you, bring him out, because I loved him." She is about to add, "I love you" but thinks better of it before she does. He bites his lip, his eyes welling up. "I feel so lost." "We're going to bring you back home."

Dr. Carter observes the exchange before scribbling down a note.

_Support system in form of cousin?- could be immensely helpful_

* * *

"Lady Mary, may I speak to you for a minute?" Dr. Carter steps away from Matthew's bed and begins to lead her out into the hall.

"Of course, what is it?" Mary asks, her heart beating in her chest.

Dr. Carter doesn't look her in the eye. "I apologize for earlier, it's just, you seem so close to Captain Crawley. Now, I'm not here to interrogate you about your relationship, and I certainly won't disclose anything you tell me. But I'd like to understand his family dynamics better. A lot of times shellshock is made worse by the families either being abusive or cloying."

"I assure you I am not abusive and I have never been accused of being cloying," Mary replies firmly.

"I figured as much." A little hint of a smile shows below the psychologist's bushy dark beard. "But I'd just like to understand."

Mary looks around quickly, to ensure no one is in the hall, and lowers her voice to a near whisper. "We were engaged... or almost engaged, right before the war. He proposed, and I... I made him wait too long. He was... he is a very patient man, but circumstances kept shifting and by the time I realized that I loved him, and that the circumstances didn't matter, it was too late. He left, went off to war, and came back engaged."

"And his fiancee? Are they still engaged?"

Mary shakes her head softly. "As of yesterday, they're not. I don't know if she's still here or not. He had a flashback yesterday, he believed she was a German, and he hit her. He was completely distraught afterward, and adamant that he couldn't marry her. She tried to protest but I think she agreed. She didn't believe she was strong enough to deal with it."

"Are you?" Dr. Carter asks.

"Me?"

"You seem to help him. You calm him, you keep him home and help keep his mind from slipping away. And you don't flinch while doing any of it."

Mary almost laughs, but it lacks humor. "None of that is... I'm just his nurse."

"Were you a nurse previously?"

She cannot say anything.

"I don't need to pry into your personal relationship, Lady Mary. But you help him, and I'm wondering if you're prepared to keep helping him."

"I suppose so..."

Dr. Carter smiles. "Good. Is there anyone else that he's close to, that you think will help him?"

"His mother. She came home from France yesterday. I don't believe she's planning to go back."

He nods and jots something else down on his notepad. "Good, good. Thank you. You see, what he really needs is a support system. I've seen it numerous times throughout the war; the soldiers who don't have family and friends to support them fall apart due to shellshock far more than the soldiers who do. Now, I'm going to speak with Dr. Clarkson and show him what I believe is the best course of action."

"Yes. Alright. Thank you, Dr. Carter."

"I can tell you care about him a great deal. That's good. He has a much better chance thanks to you." He turns and walks down the hall to Clarkson's office.

* * *

Isobel shows up right before Carter and Clarkson come out of his office. She looks exhausted, her eyes dark and drooping and her hair a mess, but she seems calmer than the day before, and more determined.

"How did it go?" Isobel asks.

Mary shrugs. "I'm not sure, honestly. He seemed alright when he was talking to Dr. Carter, if a little bit nervous. Dr. Carter said some odd things to me afterward, but I'm not sure if..."

The door opens in front of them and Clarkson pops his head out. "Mrs. Crawley, Lady Mary? Would you like to come in?"

"Me?" Mary asks.

"Dr. Carter requested that you be present." Clarkson looks as confused as Mary feels. She nods and glances at Isobel, who seems completely unperturbed.

"Let's go on in, then," Isobel says, placing a gentle hand on Mary's shoulder.

Mary doesn't know what to do, but she follows Isobel in. She sits down in a leather chair next to Isobel, across from the doctors. Her hands are primly in her lap, and they sweat. A lady doesn't sweat, of course, but in this moment, Mary is not quite a lady. She is anxious and confused and worried. She wants to get back to Matthew, to make sure that he is alright. No doubt the earlier evaluation dragged up some memories that he was trying so hard to suppress.

"I suppose I'll get straight to the point," Dr. Carter says, his words brusque but his voice kindly. "Based on my evaluation, as well as Dr. Clarkson's notes and what both of you have told me, Captain Crawley is shellshocked. I expected as much, as I know you did."

Mary and Isobel nod. Mary feels Isobel's hand reach for hers, and she takes it.

There is a note in Dr. Carter's voice that tells them he is not yet finished. "The extent of the psychological damage is harder to assess," Dr. Carter continues. "Particularly as there is no standard with which to assess the damage. The only standard is where the shellshocked soldier is not sent back..."

"Are you saying he might be sent back?" Mary asks, before she can think. Isobel squeezes her hand to calm her.

"Lady Mary," Dr. Clarkson interjects, "I don't believe Captain Crawley will be sent back because of the injury to his leg. The bone and ligaments were badly damaged and I don't believe they'll heal enough for him to be sent back to the front."

Mary isn't sure whether to sigh in relief or despair.

"No, I'm not concerned about him being sent back," Dr. Carter continues. "If there were not another injury I would be, but he's home now. But, as I said, it is hard to determine the severity of shellshock oftentimes. Because of that, it is often difficult to determine a course of treatment too. Now, for severe cases often the patient is sent to an asylum..."

"No," Isobel interrupts flatly. "You are not sending my son to one of those places. He may be troubled, but he is not insane. He still knows his own mind, he is still very intelligent, and I can't watch him be broken by one of those places."

"I was not planning to suggest that. Personally, I don't believe asylums work very well to rehabilitate the patient, but in cases where the patient is a danger to himself and to others, it is our only choice. Other times, with shellshocked patients, we send them to a convalescent home, as long as home is somewhere quiet and peaceful where they can relax, escape the war, and be surrounded by people who care for them. There are a few homes especially for shellshocked soldiers but I believe that Captain Crawley will be surrounded by enough support in being sent home with you that he should recover."

Isobel nods, but she does not seem convinced.

"I will have a more specific set of instructions for you when he is discharged, but I don't believe any of them will come as a surprise to you."

Mary glances at her lap and then looks up again. "I don't understand why you're telling me this, though. I don't live with him."

Dr. Carter smiles, although it does not comfort Mary much. "You help him immensely. And you care for him. So I figured you should know."

* * *

When Mary leaves the room, she is prepared to make a beeline straight for Matthew's bed. However, there is someone in the way of that.

It is Sybil.

Sybil seems anxious and lost, and is clutching her hands. "Mary," she nearly yells when she spots her sister. Another nurse has to remind her to be quiet. "Mary, you need to come home now."

"I need to..."

Sybil doesn't leave any room for argument.

"Now. I'll explain in the car." Mary wants to protest, but there's something in Sybil's face that doesn't allow her to. She simply sighs and follows Sybil out the door.

"What is going on?" Mary asks angrily as Sybil opens the door of the car.

"I'm needed back at the hospital, this better be important."

Sybil silently holds out a piece of paper.

Mary takes it and scans it quickly before stepping in. She is stunned into silence. She pulls Sybil away from the car, along the side of the building. It is not quite private, but it is quieter. I deserve this, she reminds herself, but the letter is so harsh, so self-congratulatory, so awful that she can't help but think that even she doesn't deserve this. "He's publishing," she whispers, although in the back of her mind she realizes that Sybil already knows. She must have read the letter. "He's publishing tomorrow. He sent the draft of the article."

"Bastard," Sybil says, under her breath.

After scanning the article, Mary sighs. "It's been done. Within society, my life is over."

"Couldn't you sue him for libel?" Sybil asks.

"It's all true..." Mary replies, choking on the words.

Sybil snatches the article and looks over it. "You didn't ...kill him, did you?"

"No, not intentionally. He was in my bed and he just... died. I didn't know what was happening. For a long time, I thought it was my fault."

_I deserve this._

Sybil shakes her head. "No, this is not your fault."

"Papa will say otherwise. He'll tell me I've brought shame on this family. He might even disown me. Who knows? I probably deserve it anyway."

"Please don't say that."

"Why not?" Sybil puts the article down. "Because you don't deserve it. That man is evil and publishing that story about something that happened when you were very young and very naive and holding you responsible for the outcome is completely unfair. And anyone who cares about you will see that."

"What about Matthew?"

"What about him?"

Mary realizes what she sounds like, so she shakes her head. "Nothing. It's just... I realized that I'll have to tell him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Ideas

She can already feel the impact when she arrives at the hospital.

The nurses are too polite to say anything to her face, of course. They smile at her, with a mix of sympathy and derision, but behind her back they titter about what other exploits she might have involved herself in.

Some of the soldiers are even worse, making risqué comments toward her that she chooses to ignore. Or tries to, at least.

And then there's Matthew, whose blue eyes stare straight ahead, almost unblinking.

"Matthew..." Mary whispers, as she approaches his bed.

His eyes rise and fixate on her unsettlingly. "Well?"

"You've heard, then."

"I don't understand."

Mary shakes her head. "Neither do I, it was just..."

"No," he says softly, but with a power that Mary hasn't heard him use in a long time. "No. I don't understand anything right now. I don't know what I am, where I belong, if I'm ever going to be able to function without flashing back thanks to every loud noise... I don't understand why you would... with him, but I can't blame you. Mostly, I want to understand something. Is this why? Is this why you put me off so long?"

She sits down on the edge of the bed and takes his hand in hers. "Yes."

"Oh, Mary..."

"I was so scared to tell you," she continues, blinking out tears. Her words spill out, one on top of another. "I couldn't tell you because I thought would you hate me. I thought you would realize I'm not nearly good enough for you, I'm not the model of chastity and purity that society expects. I couldn't bear having you think of me that way. I couldn't bear your dislike, your derision. And I suppose I got it anyway." She pulls away and tries to smile through the tears that are pooling in her eyes. "You just believed I was shallow. So did the world. When in truth, I was scared. I didn't trust you like I should have. I loved you too much to allow you to hate me. But I'm certain you despise me now."

"I don't," he says. "In fact, there's very little I know for sure anymore, but I do know this. I never could despise you."

Mary doesn't know how to respond, so she lets out a breath that she seems to have been holding in for ages. "Do you think you would have... been okay with it? If I had told you then?"

"I couldn't tell you. I'm not the same man, Mary. Now, I don't care. It doesn't matter to me in the least. Much of that is because I've seen much worse. But then... I might not have cared, I might have been too head over heels in love. Or I might have cared, or I simply might have been jealous. Who can say?"

She looks at her lap, and brings her eyes up to him again. "But you wouldn't have hated me."

"I doubt it. I don't know."

"I'm ruined forever," Mary says. She doesn't sound sad, or disappointed, or scared. After all, she deserves this.

"In a way, so am I," Matthew replies, trying to smile. "I'm a shellshocked mess of a man who can't go a day without thinking I'm back in the war. I'm like a small child who can't handle loud noises. I can't handle being here, surrounded by memories of the war. Every uniform I see reminds me, every wound haunts me because I know to the other side, I caused some of those wounds. But if it gives you any comfort, you're not the only one who is ruined forever."

Mary pats his hand. "I don't believe you're ruined forever. I don't think you're beyond recovery. Remember, I'm going to bring you back to yourself."

* * *

Mary retreats to her room halfway through the day, having withstood far too many looks, snorts, and glares.

Perhaps it would be better if she could go somewhere that no one knew her.

America is not an option. It is too far away, especially during wartime, and everyone would know her anyway. They might not know her scandal right away but she is the granddaughter of a member of American high society and she cannot hide there.

The continent is far too war-torn for her to escape there, and she has no one who would be willing to chaperone her there.

Who would chaperone her, anyway? Obviously they would never trust her to travel on her own.

Mama is too busy administrating the hospital and Mary has a sneaking suspicion that Granny doesn't feel up to any extended trip. Of course she would never admit it, but Granny is getting older.

Mary's mind drifts back, as it often has these last few days, to Matthew.

The idea hits her in an instant.

Matthew isn't going to do well at a convalescent home. He said it himself, wounds and uniforms surrounding him don't help him escape the war. And Mary wants to do what Dr. Carter said, to help him recover as well as possible.

Isobel will want to help him do the same.

And if Isobel were to take him away to a quieter place, less touched by war, where they could live in relative isolation to help him recover, perhaps she can go along. She could help him, and she could escape the looks and derision that are cast her way.

Perhaps her uncle Shrimpie has an unused house up in Scotland. In fact, she's fairly certain that he has a hunting lodge he maybe uses twice a year for shooting lunches, that would be perfectly serviceable for three people to live in.

She takes out a piece of paper to write him a polite request. And she resolves to go talk to Isobel.

* * *

"I'm not sure how you think you can pull this off," Isobel says, after hearing Mary's plan. They sit comfortably in the small library of Downton. "It makes sense to me, but Matthew is in the care of the army hospital system. They'll send him to a convalescent home as soon as he can be discharged. They won't allow him to go off to wherever with civilians who can't care for him medically."

"You're a nurse, though," Mary protests. "And can't they opt out of a convalescent home? Convalescent leave, don't they call it?"

Isobel sighs and reaches across to Mary, patting her hand. "It's not that simple. He isn't just here for shellshock, remember? His leg is badly hurt and wounds like that need careful supervision. They can get infected easily or heal badly."

"I'm sure there are doctors in Scotland..."

"The army has a very strict way of doing things and I doubt they want to bend to the whims of whoever."

Mary shakes her head. "He's not going to do well in a typical convalescent home. He bemoans being surrounded by wounded men, by reminders of the war. Dr. Carter said that certainly isn't helping him. If he's going to recover, a quiet place with only people he knows and trusts, people he doesn't associate with the war... that will be best for him."

"This isn't just about Matthew," Isobel says sagely. Mary begins to argue, but Isobel holds a hand up. "No, it isn't. I'm not blaming you, and I think your motives surrounding my son are pure. But those aren't your only motives."

"I need to escape Downton," Mary admits. "But I don't want to leave him." She realizes how intimate that sounds, and adds, "Dr. Carter wanted me to stay with him. He said I was helping Matthew immensely. And I don't want him to lose that because I'm running away from my mistakes."

Isobel sighs. "We can take it up with Clarkson. I doubt he'll concede, but I do think that this could be good for Matthew."

* * *

Clarkson, of course, does not approve of the idea. "I'm afraid that would test the order of things in a manner which would be time-consuming and pointless."

"We just want..." Mary begins to protest.

"Captain Crawley will be at home when he is sent to convalesce. In a way, Downton is his home. It will not be so unfamiliar. He is quite lucky, in that sense."

Mary sighs. "It isn't enough. Can't you see how much he is struggling, being surrounded by reminders of the war? A loud noise or a little bit of blood already sets him off, how much more will a tattered uniform or severed leg?"

"Were it just his shellshock that was the problem, I might agree with you. But Captain Crawley was severely physically wounded as well. I cannot, in good conscience, leave that out of a doctor's hands."

"Couldn't he get transferred to a doctor in Scotland? And Isobel is a nurse, she could easily see to his daily needs."

Isobel puts a hand on Mary's wrist, feeling the younger woman's passions inflame.

Clarkson sighs. "Army authorization for such a transfer is notoriously hard to get."

"I can get Papa to pull a few strings, allow it to fly under the radar," Mary says. "It will not be that difficult."

"I'm only opposed to it because Captain Crawley is my patient and I am very concerned about both his physical and mental wellbeing," Clarkson argues, "And I don't want him or myself to get in trouble with the Army by trying to do something like this. Besides, his physical injuries necessitate careful observance to optimize healing, something I'm not sure that whatever doctor you find up in Scotland can provide."

Isobel shakes her head. "I admit, I was reluctant when I heard Mary's idea. But as I think more and more about, the benefits far outweigh the troubles. We will find the best doctor that we can nearby, and we will provide a quiet, serene place for him. I have worked in the convalescent home at Downton and it is not quiet, nor free of reminders of the war, by any means. Even if he were not shellshocked, my son would find difficulty fitting into such a place. Now, I fear it would be even worse, and a transition like that could damage him even more. I'm scared for my son, Dr. Clarkson, and I can't say if he'll recover, but I'll damn well do my best to help him."

Clarkson looks down at his papers again, reluctant, but moved. "I'll see if we can manage something like this. It may require that Lord Grantham pull a few strings, and it is against my medical advice, but I can see your case."

Mary nods. "Thank you, doctor."

* * *

"Are you my nurse today?" Matthew asks, as he sees Mary walking toward him with a bowl of antiseptic and several towels.

Mary smiles and puts the bowl down on the tray at the end of his bed. "I'm your nurse every day, but Sybil showed me how to do this yesterday, so I'm a more serious nurse today."

She leans down to remove the temporary splint around Matthew's leg. Matthew winces as she does so. "Damn," he mutters under his breath. "Sorry. It just hurts when it gets moved."

"Shh," Mary calms him. She unravels the layers of bandages around the bullet wound and begins to carefully clean it. "This looks like it's healing pretty well. Clarkson said within a few days he should be able to plaster your leg and then you can be up and about again."

Matthew rolls his eyes, trying to disguise a wince. "Hardly. I'm not supposed to walk on it for the next three months."

"You'll manage," Mary says. It sounds harsh, but it brings a smile to Matthew's face. This is the Mary he knows, the Mary he fell in love with. Harsh, perhaps, but in the midst of caring for him in a way that he knows is not easy for her. There is something comforting about her being so Mary in the midst of doing something that is so not Mary.

Mary finishes cleaning the wound and wraps clean bandages around his leg, then puts the splint back on. "Careful not to move it," she says.

"I know, Clarkson has given me the lecture before," Matthew jokes, although there is very little humor behind the joke. There is very little humor behind anything he says these days, the war seems to have sucked all the humor out of him. A shame, Mary thinks, since they had the same sense of humor. She resolves that she will help to restore his sense of humor.

Mary puts the dirtied bandaged on the tray and sits down on the bed next to Matthew's uninjured leg. "So, your mother and I were wondering about what will happen to you when you are discharged. Of course, it's assumed you'd be sent to Downton to convalesce, but I almost wonder if it would be better if you weren't in a military convalescent home. You said all the uniforms and the wounds make you think you're back in France at times, it can't be good to be surrounded by all that while you recover."

Matthew shrugs, unenthusiastically. "Maybe not. I doubt there's much we can do about it though."

"Your mother and I have a plan, although we still need to get official approval. My uncle Shrimpie has a house up in Scotland that he is pretty much never using. You and Isobel and I would go live up there, we'd get a local doctor to care for you, and it'll be much more peaceful and serene than being at the convalescent home here would be."

He is silent.

"What do you think?" Mary prods.

"It's just... I'm not sure what to think... about anything, anymore, honestly, but especially about this. First of all, I'm shocked you care so much."

Mary rolls her eyes. "Really, after all this?"

He glances down at his lap. "I was joking," he tries to explain. "I know that's difficult for you to comprehend, since I've been such a miserable mess."

She isn't exactly sure what to make of his joke, or whether he is joking or not. His humor is so humorless now. "Anyway..."

"It could be helpful. I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything anymore, and that's the problem. If you ask me to make a decision, I can't. Half the time, I'm not even sure if I'm here in England or back in France. So if it could help me, why not? Just please... don't force me to make the decisions. I'm afraid of them."

Mary shakes her head. "Well, I guess I'll count that as your approval."

"Scotland sounds quite lovely. I've never been there." His tone is suddenly soft, his voice wistful. It's a change, but a pleasant one.

"It is."

* * *

 

Mary isn't quite sure how her father managed it (or how she managed to convince him to do it in the first place), but he manages to get Matthew transferred to the care of a Dr. Warren in Scotland, for when they make the trip up. She is thrilled, Isobel is surprised but pleased, and Matthew... he is happy of course, but he is also struggling.

"I feel a bit uncomfortable with it, is all," he argues. "It's special treatment; other men are going through the same or worse and they don't get the luxury of being whisked away to a mansion in Scotland to hide from the word until they can face it again." Sometimes Mary forgets that he is a lawyer, that he is trained in the art of reasoning, but for a second, she can see a glimpse of that Matthew again.

"We're doing everything we can to help you. You should be glad that you have people who care so deeply about you."

To her surprise, he chokes on his words. "I know," he says adamantly. "It makes me feel guilty just thinking about what all I have compared to others, and yet I'm still completely miserable inside myself."

Mary can sense that he's headed for a meltdown or flashback, so she grasps his hand and makes eye contact with him; it is uncomfortable and forced, but it is keeping him here on earth. "Don't feel guilty. Never feel guilty. You've been to hell and back, you deserve peace and quiet. Perhaps other soldiers deserve that as well, and don't get it, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't make you any less deserving. You went to war, you got badly wounded, and you ended up with shellshock. None of that was your fault, you didn't deserve any of it. But it just happened. In war, things just happen. We live with them. It doesn't choose who deserves what, it just lets some people lose less and some people lose more. You lost more, but that doesn't make you less. War doesn't discriminate, it takes whoever it likes. Count yourself lucky that you're here. The rest will come in steps. But it will come. And you will deserve every bit of it."

He is now actually crying. But he is still himself.

Mary gives him a concerned but unsure look. He glances upward and tries to smile through the tears. "I'm alright," he rasps. "I'm still here. It's just... I'm so glad. I'm so glad you're doing this for me. And what you're saying? It's helping. I think it is, at least."

"I'll be there in Scotland too."

"Thank God for you, Mary," he lets out. His eyes are red, bleary, and Mary realizes just how much he has cried over the last week. It's unlike, Matthew, really, but this Matthew is different. No, she must remind herself. He is still the same man. Just a changed one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and drop a comment if you feel so inclined!


	6. Direction

He has four episodes in the next three days; all fairly small, hardly disruptive, but still, he is obviously haunted by them. Everywhere he is, the war lurks; around every corner, it is there. Every path contains a shell, every loud noise is an explosion, another death. Every bit of red liquid is the blood of those he has killed.

No, it won't leave him alone.

In that time, the bullet wound is pronounced healed enough to proceed and his leg is carefully plastered. "We'll get you up in another day or two," Clarkson promises, and Matthew is conflicted. In a way, it will be a good thing. He is going stir-crazy, confined to bed, not supposed to move his leg. On the other hand, it is terrifying, to leave the safety of his bed, to go out and face this new and changed world he isn't sure he can handle.

Mary comes to his bedside a few days later with a pair of crutches in her hand. "Would you like to try these out?" she asks.

He slowly nods. "I'll have to eventually, why not now?"

She smiles, a bit nervously, but bends down to help him move his legs over to the edge of the bed. "Alright. I'm going to help you get up, but you're going to have to balance on one leg. Just lean on me."

"I will," he says softly, almost to himself.

Mary links her arm with his and carefully helps to pull him up. A sudden bout of dizziness, however, hits him, and he falls back onto the bed.

"Sorry," he mutters. It is a deadpan apology but she can see that he is embarrassed thanks to his furious blushing.

She sits next to him on the bed. "It's fine. You've been in bed almost two weeks, naturally you're a little weak. Just tell me when you're ready to try again."

He glances at his legs, one hanging normally, one sticking straight out, wrapped in hard plaster. He glances at the wall in front of him, blank and clinical. He glances anywhere but at Mary, because that is too hard.

"What if I'm never ready?" he asks. He doesn't expect an answer, because his question is so vague. He doesn't even know what he's asking. Really, he's just scared of what's ahead.

Mary, as expected, doesn't answer him. Instead, she questions him. "What do you mean?"

He blinks and stares at his legs again. "When I was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, I decided that I had my whole life planned out. I would go to Oxford, earn my degree in law, and work in that until I was old and had children and grandchildren to care for me in my old age. Naturally, somewhere along the way I would find a wife, and we would live in a comfortable but modest house somewhere in Manchester and she and I would be perfectly happy and I would be content to be a solicitor the rest of my days. Perhaps I would rise in the ranks, because well-known and trusted, perhaps even head up a firm. But my life, as I imagined it, would be uneventful and yet productive. I could help people, leave a little mark on the work that allowed it to be a better place. Of course, I never anticipated becoming the heir. I never anticipated the war. I never..." he almost says  _anticipated you_  but he stops himself. "I suppose my dream, my perfect little life, died the day I got the letter. You think I'm ridiculous probably. You see it as unambitious, as practically ...boring. I never sought adventure, I never sought any sort of higher calling. I knew what I wanted from the time I was very young, and it seemed to be within reach. It should have been. But even if Patrick hadn't died, even if I wasn't the heir... the war still would have happened. And I would still have gone and fought. Anyway... this is hard for me. Not just the shellshock or the injury, although of course that's difficult. No, the worst is the uncertainty. That's what I can't handle. We go up to this house in Scotland and maybe the war leaves me, maybe it doesn't. Maybe my leg will heal, maybe it won't. Maybe... I don't know what's ahead, Mary. That's what terrifies me the most."

Mary stares at him, not blinking. This is surprising, because he has never been this open with her. She isn't sure why he is choosing to be this open now. But she knows that she has to help him. And so she will. She will give him strength and certainty."You know what's almost completely certain?"

"What?"

"In an hour, you'll still be here. Here in England, here  _alive_. I don't know if you'll believe that you are, but I can tell you with certainty that you will be. Now after that hour, I can tell you that in the next hour, you probably still will be here. Take everything an hour at a time, and uncertainty doesn't seem so daunting. Take everything a day at a time, a week at a time. Certainty will come eventually, but until then, just wait." Mary keeps her eyes focused on him, hoping he will accept this.

Matthew sighs. "It's so difficult."

"I know it's difficult. I'm not certain at this point in time either. I'm not certain whether I'll ever be able to show my face in London again. I'm not certain that some of my friends are my friends anymore. But I'm going to keep living. I may not have some of my friends anymore, but I know I have you for sure. I have Sybil, and Mama, and Papa- even Edith. And of course, Carson, and many others I know will stay by my side. And that certainty, for me, is enough."

He finally looks up and into her eyes, suddenly drawn in by their sincerity as well as their beauty. "I'll always have Mother. And I'll always have you…and the rest of the family, you're all so good to me," he finishes awkwardly.

She nods. "Are you ready to try to get up again?"

"I think so."

She holds him under the arm and they both stand up together. He leans heavily on her but he makes it, and she helps him slip the crutches under his arms. Mary faces him, holds his arms, and smiles. "See, you're ready."

"Maybe."

"You are."

* * *

He has a little bit of physio in the hospital, enough to get him comfortable with using the crutches to move around. Any more, Clarkson says, would be impossible until he can bear weight on his leg again.

After a few more days, and maybe four more minor episodes of shellshock, Clarkson decides that Matthew is well enough to be released into Isobel's care. "Now, I wouldn't allow something like this with any patient," Clarkson says, "but because I know how much you love your son and I recognize how excellent you are at nursing, I am allowing it." He frowns. "Still, I don't think this a wise decision."

"I recognize that," Isobel says quietly, glancing at the discharge papers before her, "but I know my son. I know how his mind works, what he does when he's afraid, what triggers him, how to bring him out of certain moods... And he most certainly needs someone who knows that. And because I know my son so well, I also know that he needs to get away from everything to truly recover. He is generally quiet, and thoughtful, and introverted-a loud convalescent home is not going to help his stress or his anxiety."

Clarkson nods. "You are his mother. You may well be right. However, I want you to keep a close eye on his physical condition. His leg appears to be healing decently but of course there is the risk of the infection, and he must also ensure that he does not use it, or else it will not heal properly."

"I understand. And Dr. Warren understands the situation as well. He trained at an orthopedic hospital so he knows what he is doing."

The doctor hands a pen to Isobel. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you," Isobel says softly. She signs the papers.

"He's all yours."

Isobel forces a smile. "Sometimes, I wonder if he is anymore. But I'd like to think so."

* * *

The train to Scotland doesn't leave until the next day, so Matthew spends the night on a makeshift bed at Crawley House. There aren't any downstairs bedrooms in the house, and nobody wants to let Matthew navigate the narrow stairs on crutches, especially as he's already quite unsteady, so Isobel piles sheets onto the long, comfortable couch in his old study.

It is quite eerie, being in his old study. The books sit, long untouched, dusty and cold. Matthew sits on the edge of the couch. He is not unfamiliar with sleeping on it; oftentimes, instead of going upstairs, he would simply lie and sleep on the couch while working late. But now, it is different. He is not working, and he doubts he will be able to work for a time... maybe not ever. That thought causes him to swallow harshly; what will he do with his life if he cannot work?

Isobel helps him get settled onto the couch, placing a couple pillows under his injured leg in order to elevate it. "Is there anything else I can get you? I'm sorry it's not quite so comfortable."

"It's fine," he murmurs, although she's right. It isn't very comfortable. But he supposes, as a young man he spent many a night on this couch, he can survive one more.

His mother places a kisses on his head. "Well, don't hesitate to ring if you need anything at all."

He nods blankly, staring at the wall.

"Are you sure you're alright? Or do you want me to stay in here?"

"I'll be fine," he says, his voice almost dead.

Isobel sighs and shoots him one last concerned look. "Good night, then." She blows him a kiss, walking slowly out the door.

As soon as the door closes, Matthew wishes that he had asked her to stay. The room is dark but he can't get up very well to open the curtains. The little bit of light that does stream in casts shadows on the wall that strike fear into his soul. They look like people, some of them. Like Germans, waiting to attack.

He shivers, and reaches for anything he might be able to defend himself with. The only thing he can reach is one of his crutches, and he brandishes it. If one of them attacks, maybe he can fend them off.

He hears footsteps, and he tightens his grip on the crutch. He is fully sitting up now, in a position that is painfully stretching his leg but he can't bring himself to care. They are here, and he is supposed to fight them. To kill them. That is what he has been trained to do; to kill.

Suddenly, everything is becoming real; the walls are disappearing and in their place he can see the desolate landscape of the battlefield, a harsh wind blowing over dead trees, killed by the shells that are everywhere. He takes a step, brandishing his gun- it is a gun now- and looks around everywhere. He sees so many of them and yet none of them, and his heart constricts tightly. Where are they? Are they playing a trick on him?

A light breaks from the clouds, and one of them appears.

He begins to scream, because there is nothing else he can do but wait for help. His gun, it seems, is useless, lacking ammunition.

The German steps toward him slowly, seemingly unwilling to just kill him and end his miserable life already.

His useless gun is taken out of his hands.

The German's hands... they come around his shoulders.

He hears crying from the soldier. Odd, but...

He begins to cry too.

Isobel holds him, as tightly as she can without hurting him. "Shhh, Matthew, it's just me. Shhh, you're alright."

He buries his face in her chest and his cries make her heart break. She isn't sure if he is back to himself or not, but she holds him tight. He tries to say something, but his choking sobs prevent him from shaping words.

"I'm here, you're okay," Isobel whispers, over and over again. Her hands run through his hair and she holds him as if he was a little child again. She misses her innocent little boy, but there is no way to go back. "I love you so much, Matthew. And I'm so glad you're back here in England, and you're going to be okay. We're all going to be okay."

Matthew seems so young in that moment, so small. It painfully reminds her of the day that Reginald died, where her teenage son completely broke down and became like a child again. Now is much the same, and her heart constricts at the thought.

It is almost surprising to her when he lifts his tear-stained face off of her chest and she can see the aging that the war has brought upon him. He is so young and yet so much older. He is thinner than he used to be, more muscular, and while it is not a bad look on him, Isobel misses her cherubic young son.

She holds herself together. She wipes the few tears from her face and kisses the top of his head. "I'm here now," she whispers again.

He nods, finally almost himself again. "I thought..."

"I know."

"I can't be alone," he says, his voice utterly of terror. "You can't leave me alone, or else they'll come back. I can't defend myself. My gun doesn't work. I..."

"Matthew," Isobel interrupts gently, feeling her throat get tight. "It wasn't real."

He stares at her, unblinking, for several seconds. When he finally lets his eyes shut, Isobel can see him relax. He is back. "I know it wasn't real now..." he says, after several long seconds. He swallows thickly. "It was real, though. I remember it... I was stuck in the mud and my gun wouldn't work and they were coming to get me and then William saved me."

William. Isobel lets her mind ruminate for a minute on the poor young boy who had apparently saved Matthew's life. He had thrown himself in front of Matthew and had died in the process. Matthew has talked little about William since his death, but Isobel sees how hard the young man's death has been on her son. Sometimes, when he has nightmares, he calls out for William.

"He was a good man," Isobel says.

"He didn't deserve to die. Especially not while saving me. I don't deserve to survive while he died. I'm a mess, I can't be a productive member of society, I can't go a day without seeing the damn Germans all around me..."

Isobel wraps her arms around his head and holds him close to her chest. "No, William didn't deserve to die. But neither did you. And do you know? I'm so very grateful you're alive. I thank God and William for that every single day."

"I'm a burden on you now. You're dropping your whole life to go up to the middle of Scotland with me to see if you can make me less of a mess. Maybe..."

"Don't you dare say what I think you might say," Isobel warns. "You're never a burden. You're my son, it's my job to take care of you. Yes, I'm a nurse, but I'm a mother, first and foremost. And if that means dropping everything, then that's what I have to do. It isn't a burden, it's my responsibility, and I'm more than happy to do it."

She can feel Matthew's tears wetting her dressing gown, and she runs her hands through his hair again.

"How about Mary?" Matthew finally says. "What on earth does she have to gain from this?"

"Mary says she needs to escape from the story about her and Pamuk," Isobel begins. She pauses to see how her son reacts. "I assume she's talked to you about it."

"She has."

"And what do you think?"

Matthew sighs. "It isn't my place to judge her. I don't feel like I know the whole story. She was broken, I'm broken. It doesn't really matter to me anymore. All that matters is that I know why she rejected me before the war. It was because she was afraid to tell me, but she didn't feel that she could accept without telling me."

Isobel tries not to make her surprise obvious, but she can't hide it well. This is not something she had expected from Mary; when Mary didn't accept Matthew's proposal, she had assumed it was the question of money and status. "So you're not angry with her?"

"I could never despise her, mother, especially after all she's done for me."

Something hits Isobel, then. A realization. Something that had been so obvious, but that she had not pieced together. "She cares for you," Isobel says, softy. Her mid goes over everything Mary has done; nursing Matthew, calming him when he falls apart, helping him in every way possible, arranging the whole trip to Scotland... "She cares for you still."

"No," Matthew says firmly. "No, she doesn't. She can't. She's going to Scotland because she needs to get away from the story, and she's a very good friend and wants to help me."

Isobel shakes her head. She doesn't want to press him on this now, but a little shiver of delight comes over her now that she certainly knows.

"You really ought to get some sleep," Isobel says. "Would you like me to stay in here tonight?"

"Yes," Matthew replies. "And leave the light on."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely people reading this! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	7. Journey

Mary meets them the next morning at the train station. Matthew is still unsteady on the crutches, and looks absolutely exhausted. Isobel, too, looks tired, but also excited. They can see Anna, Daisy, and Molesley off in the distance, carrying luggage and preparing to board the train.

"Shrimpie's chauffeur will meet us at the station," Mary says, quickening her steps toward them. "Then he'll drive us out to the house. Shrimpie says that the house is quite small, but it should be suitable for the three of us and three or four servants. He says a local girl will come to help clean, and otherwise we should be well suited. It's about three miles from the nearest village, and there are horses on the estate."

Isobel nods, absorbing it all. "Sounds like it's more than enough."

"He has been very generous," Mary agrees. She glances over to Matthew and meets his eyes; they are pale and haunted. "Matthew?" she questions gently, although there is no mistaking the fear behind it.

He wobbles a little bit and Isobel steadies him with her hand. "I'm just... remembering leaving from here to go to France. You're not sending me back, are you?"

"No, Matthew, we aren't sending you back," Mary says softly. Her own mind remembers kissing him before he left, and a shiver runs down her spine.

"They can't send me back, I'm not fit for service!" Matthew protests.

Mary and Isobel share a worried glance.

"They know you're not," Isobel says. "We're going up to Scotland."

"Scotland..." Matthew repeats. "Are we fighting up in Scotland as well now?"

Isobel shakes her head. "No, there's no war in Scotland. We're trying to get you further away from the war. You'll never have to go back to France, Matthew. Not unless you choose to. And I doubt you'll choose to for many years yet."

Mary puts a hand on his arm and encourages him toward the door of the train.

"Last time..." Matthew says, his voice getting caught in his throat. "Last time, I was going back to France, and you kissed me. Mother, she kissed me! Mary, why did you kiss me? Did you think it was going to die? Are you sending me off to die now?"

"Of course not!" Isobel says. "Here, let's help you up into the train."

"You're tricking me!" Matthew cries, struggling weakly against Mary's strengthened grip.

Mary shakes her head. "We're not, I promise." She steps up onto the train. "See, I'm going too. And they're certainly not sending me to France."

"I should hope not," he replies, an air of desperation in his voice. "Mother, I..."

"On the train," Isobel says, steadying him as he places his crutches on the narrow step up to the train car. "You'll be fine, just get on the train."

He does, albeit incredibly reluctantly.

* * *

Once the train starts moving, Matthew begins to fall asleep. He is exhausted, from recovery and from his lack of sleep the night before. He leans his head against the window, his leg carefully propped up on the seat beside him. Mary and Isobel sit across from him, and watch as his features, if not relax, then become less tense than they are when he is awake.

"I hope this helps him," Isobel says, keeping her eyes fixed on her sleeping son.

Mary nods. "I do, too. If I know him, it will, but sometimes I feel like I don't know him anymore."

"He's not my little boy anymore," Isobel whispers, and though her face is impassive, Mary can hear the tightness of her throat in her speech. "And I know he'll never quite be my little boy again."

"He still loves you though, so much," Mary says. "He always lights up when he sees you, and I know he always is trying to make you happy."

Isobel sighs and manages to tear her eyes away from her son in order to look at Mary. "I know he does. And that's how I know he's still in there, that he can still be brought back. Because he still loves so much."

"I've just been thinking about what happened with Lavinia... he thought she was a German soldier. And then he hit her. I know it was accidental, and he felt so much remorse for it, but I do wonder, would he have done that if he really loved her?" Mary asks. She is almost musing out loud.

Isobel doesn't outwardly respond with shock to Mary's question, but inside her heart constricts. If she needed any more proof that Mary loves Matthew, this is it. Mary, in all her memory, was beyond kind to Lavinia. For Matthew's sake. It was all for Matthew's sake. Mary loves her son so much, and Isobel almost can't reconcile this with the Lady Mary Crawley she thought she knew so well.

But she glances sideways at the young woman on the seat next to her, who is watching Matthew with such an un-Mary-like tenderness that she almost laughs. But no, it is not laughable, and Isobel, despite not enjoying the admittance of error, admits to herself that she has been wrong about Mary's love for her son.

Of course, Isobel can never say anything to Mary. Maybe she can put something in Matthew's brain— give him the idea to pursue something further.

For now, she is simply satisfied with this knowledge; her son is in very good hands.

She takes a deep breath. How does she approach Mary about something like this?

How does she approach Matthew about something like this?

"I think he was, and still is fond of Lavinia. I think she was the type he would have married if he had not become the heir. But I don't think he was deeply in love with her ever. She was a sense of normalcy for him, and I think, deep down, she knew that too."

"And that's why she left so easily," Mary breathes.

Isobel doesn't respond, but silently she agrees with Mary. She studies the young woman next to her. Mary looks older, more mature than she was five years ago, but then again, they all are. She carries herself confidently still, but with a heaviness weighing upon her. And she hardly smiles anymore.

The girl has been through a lot, Isobel reasons. She may be a lady, spoiled and living in the lap of luxury, but her life has had its strife. Including the Pamuk incident.

Isobel wasn't sure what to think of it when she read it. Her immediate reaction was to judge Mary, but she reasoned that she didn't have all the facts and the story was written from a very biased point of view, and meant to sell papers.

However, she is still curious.

She is aware that Mary would rather not talk about it. But before they arrive in Scotland, Isobel needs to clear this up.

"What did Matthew say to you about the story in the paper? About Mr. Pamuk?"

Mary freezes up and Isobel immediately feels terrible for asking, but does not retract her question. "He said... he couldn't judge me for it. Or at least he didn't want to. And for that, I was grateful. He didn't just tell me it was fine, which I think would have made me respect him less. He just said it didn't matter to him; he then talked a whole lot of rubbish about being broken now, but that's about all."

"That's about what he said to me, too. "

"He also said... he was glad to know. Because now he knew why I turned him down before the war. It wasn't money, it was the inheritance. It was because I was afraid to tell him about this, because I feared losing his respect and love, but I didn't feel that I could marry him without telling him."

Isobel nods, with an almost undetectable smile. "He said almost the exact same thing." She quietly appreciates how genuine Matthew is with her.

"And how about you? What is your opinion on my sordid affair, since the whole world seems to have an opinion on it now," Mary asks. It is almost a challenge to Isobel.

"I don't know enough to form an opinion. It's possible it could have been something you chose to do, and my first instinct was to condemn you in my opinion for it. But I remember how you were then; you were an impressionable young girl flirting irresponsibly but not erroneously. And I doubt you invited him to your room."

Mary shakes her head. "I didn't," she says, her voice almost too soft to be heard.

"I'm sorry if you don't want to relive this," Isobel says.

"That's why I'm going to Scotland. To get away from this."

Isobel raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's your only reason."

Mary looks out the window in lieu of a reply.

* * *

The train pulls into the station just as Matthew is waking up. His sleep on the train ride up had felt more like unconsciousness than any sort of sleep but at least it had been free of any dreams. He is disoriented when he wakes up, and for a second, he panics.

Thankfully, his mother has anticipated this and she quickly and quietly puts a hand on his shoulder and explains to him where they are and what they are doing there. Otherwise, it would have taken him a few minutes to remember.

Shrimpie's chauffeur is waiting for them at the station; another kindness by him. Matthew half wonders why a cousin he has never met is willing to do all this, giving them a house and arranging everything, but he is very grateful indeed. Scotland, he can already tell, is peaceful. The bright green of the hills contrasts so sharply with the brown that was the trenches; if there is mud, it is not the horrifying stuff of his nightmares.

The drive along the road is bumpy and jolting and certainly not pleasant, and Matthew has a pounding headache by the end of it, not to mention the searing pain in his leg that seems to be his constant companion now.

He is quiet throughout the whole ride. There is little for him to say.

For months, for years even, his brain has been filled with little apart from the war. It is in every crevice of his skin and of his brain; the filth of it cannot be scrubbed away with a bath or a distraction. When his mind was not on the war however, it always went to Mary. Then of course, in a fit of guilt, he would try to think lovingly about Lavinia, but it would always cycle back to Mary once more.

He looks across the car at Mary. She looks tired; he supposes the past month has been hard on her. She is so beautiful though, and he cannot put that thought from his mind.

Maybe it is a bad idea, to be up here with her, and so little else.

But then again, Mary is what got him through much of the war. She diverted his thoughts away from the mud and the death and the hell and maybe she can keep saving him.

Mary certainly doesn't know this, and he doesn't think he'll ever tell her, but she saves him. She keeps him sane, she keeps him calm. He isn't sure what it is about her that does that to him.

Unless...

Maybe he loves her. Maybe she loves him.

No, that cannot be. He loves Lavinia; it was just his guilt and his shame that caused him to send her away...wasn't it? And Mary certainly doesn't love him. She is here to get away from Carlisle and his story, to get away from the judgment and hatred cast her way and he cannot blame her for any of that.

But she doesn't love him.

She might have at one point though.

She turned him down because of Pamuk, because she couldn't tell him, but would she have accepted him otherwise?

Maybe he'll never know.

It doesn't matter now. He's too broken to be a proper husband to her- to anyone.

It's best to let her be happy where she can, and try to muddle through the best he can.

But the thought never leaves him.

Maybe Mary still loves him.

* * *

The chauffeur hands Isobel a key to the house as they pull up the drive. The road leading up can barely even be called a road; this is truly a secluded place. The house is not especially large, comparable to Crawley House, which to Matthew and Isobel is space enough. Mary finds it small but says nothing. She is happy to be here, regardless.

Isobel and Mary step out of the car and help Matthew out after them. Isobel keeps a steadying hand on him as they make their way to the front door; the ground is rocky and uneven and Matthew is unstable on the crutches in the best of circumstances. He manages to make it up the few steps to the front door and Isobel opens the door.

The house is dark, musty, and cold. The dusty wood paneling seems uninviting, and it looks as if the place has been unused for years.

"Lord Flintshire wanted to have the whole place cleaned for you but there wasn't enough time," Shrimpie's chauffeur informs them. "The first floor is all cleaned and much of this floor as well, but not right here. Sorry about that."

Isobel shakes her head. "It's no trouble. It's very generous of Lord Flintshire to do all this for us."

The chauffeur nods. "I'll unload your trunks and take my leave; Lord Flintshire has installed a telephone so if at any point you need a car ride anywhere, call him and he will gladly oblige."

"Tell Lord Flintshire how very grateful we are," Isobel says.

The chauffeur nods and takes his leave.

Mary keeps her steadying hand on Matthew as they make their way down the dark hallway to the library. She opens the door into a room with large, pleasant windows. Were it not for the daylight streaming in, the room would be dark and ominous, but as it is, it is fairly pleasant. There are many shelves full of books that have collected dust for years, and this delights Matthew. Whatever different man is inside him now, books are still something he loves.

He sits down on a couch near the fireplace. It is not lit, but he assumes that once it is, the room will be pleasantly warm. Mary helps him, with no small amount of pain, prop his leg up on an ottoman in front of the couch.

Her touch is so gentle that he relaxes into it, before realizing what he is doing. This is wrong, he reminds himself. Mary is not in love with you, she is not here for you, and you should not take advantage of your cousin's kindness. It is kindness, nothing more. You're lucky to have such a kind cousin.

But any mention of luck is a segue into a destructive train of thought about why he is so undeservedly alive while better men like William are in the ground. And then he wonders why he is left here with a shattered leg and a shattered mind. Surely it would have been better for him to die. His dear mother wouldn't have a useless, crippled, and broken son.

Isobel, as if in response to Matthew's thought, bustles into the room. "Unfortunately there's no downstairs bedroom here. Hopefully in a week or two you'll be able to get up the stairs fairly easily. We'll work on it. Until then I'll see if Molesley and someone can manage to bring a bed down and put it in here. It's not especially proper but no one is coming here so it shouldn't matter too much."

Matthew nods, hardly taking in her words, except for the fact that he is a burden yet again.

He can feel the panic beginning to set in on him, and as much as he tries to force it away, to tell himself that he's being silly, there is a sense of suffocation that encapsulates him. He pushes the thought away, but it keeps coming back.

You're a burden. You're a burden. You'll always be a burden. Maybe if William hadn't bothered saving you...

He can't respond. He feels as if he can't breathe. There is nothing inside him but the taunting voices of his deepest fears come true and a mounting sense of panic that he cannot escape.

He can vaguely hear her mother speaking to him softly, can almost see her eyes staring into his, imploring him to come back to her.

Almost.

Instead he hears his mother's frustration and anger at his mental state, can see her desperation and frustration with him and his problems.

He is sobbing now, so exhausted, so overwhelmed, so unprepared to continue on with life.

What a broken mess he is.

In his mind, he can almost hear William... the poor boy talking about how if he died, there would be no one left in the world for his father. Matthew wants to cry out, to protect William, but instead, William protected him. He did not deserve that protection.

He isn't aware of anything anymore except for a pounding headache, a dampness on his face, and a soft hand in his.

A soft hand.

He blinks several times, trying to regain his bearings. But he can't come back alone. He still hears explosions behind him, screams and cries and desperation.

And then a voice. It isn't his mother, telling him how useless he is. It sounds somewhat like...

Like Mary.

"It's alright, Matthew," he hears, and her voice is soothing in the midst of the hell and the death. "You're not in France."

Surely she is lying.

But no, Mary is many things, but she is not a liar. She would not lie to him.

"We're in Scotland, remember? It's just you and me and your mother, and we're going to have lots of peace and quiet up here," her voice says. It is slowly sounding closer, less distant, and Matthew begins to regain his bearings.

He starts shaking, shuddering, but he can see the room around him, see his mother and Mary by his side, and he is not crying for a fear that is simply created by his mind, but he is crying as a release of stress, of grief, of pain.

"Matthew," Mary says. His name on her lips seems almost out of reality, but her face is genuine enough that he knows that this is real. "You're alright."

He manages to regain a little bit of control; the wracking sobs have become soft tears. "I'm..." he begins, choking out the words. "I'm sorry."

"No," Mary says. "Don't be. This is not your fault."

"I wasn't strong enough."

Mary shakes her head and kneels down next to him. "Never say that. If you tell yourself that, you will believe it. And you are strong enough."

* * *

He is asleep on the couch when Mary and Isobel finally leave him. He's slept a lot throughout the day, but it's getting late and they figure they might as well let him sleep; his healing body needs it.

"I hope that was just brought on by exhaustion," Isobel says softly. "And hopefully these episodes will start to decrease."

Mary nods. "He just... he was murmuring something about how he was a burden and better off dead. I hate that he thinks that way, it's just awful."

Isobel nods and glances back through the library door toward Matthew. "I just pray we made the right decision."

"So do I, but I think, in time, we'll be proven right. I know he's in there, Isobel. There's been a few times he's talked to me and he's so much like he was before the war and I know he's still himself, despite what he says. He'll smile and laugh with me, make a sardonic joke, and that's how I know he'll get through this."

The unusual earnestness of Mary's answer makes Isobel believe it, too. She has spent the last few weeks almost certain that Matthew couldn't be brought back, having seen so many shellshocked men who got worse, rather than better. But she can't allow that to happen to her son. So she puts her hand on Mary's arm. "Thank you. So much. For everything."

Mary shrugs. "It's really nothing. Coming here, that's for my own protection."

"Can I ask you a question, Mary?" Isobel asks, suddenly spurred by boldness.

"Of course," Mary replies. Her face remains impassive, but her voice belies an uncertainty in her reply.

"Do you enjoy portraying yourself as cold and heartless for the world to see? Because you are anything but that."

Taken aback, Mary steps away. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Isobel is suddenly mortified by her question, but she continues. "No matter what you say, you're not coming here for self-interest. You're here because you care deeply for my son."

Mary shakes her head. "I'm glad I can be of help here, but really, I came here to escape the story. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should go and arrange my room."

As Mary walks up the stairs, Isobel presses her lips together and twists her hands. Mary is so difficult to understand, but Isobel has a new need to understand her. Because Mary loves Matthew, she is certain, and she must understand any woman who loves her son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	8. Adjusting

Matthew doesn't wake up until the next morning. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight streaming into the library. Mary is sitting across from him in an armchair, a book across her lap. She is dressed in a simple blue dress but her hair is only braided, not up, and she looks more casual than he has ever seen her.

"Good morning," he murmurs as he pushes himself up into a seated position on the couch.

"Good morning," Mary replies, smiling benignly over her book. "How are you this morning?"

Matthew shrugs. "Rather hungry, I think." He remembers half a sandwich on the train the day before, but he hasn't eaten since then and his stomach is growling.

Mary nods. "I'll tell Daisy to prepare you a tray."

"How is she?" Matthew asks. "Really. I know William's death must be hard on her, God knows it is on me. Poor girl."

"I think..." Mary begins, pondering her words carefully. "I think that she is struggling, but she is happy to get away and be here so that she can recover."

Matthew leans his head back on the couch. "Thank her for coming. And tell her I'm absolutely delighted to be consuming what she makes for us."

Here he is, the old Matthew she knew.

Mary has to hide the grin that threatens to consume her face. "I'll do that. Would you... like to talk to her at any point? About William?"

He considers the idea, pressing his lips together and diverting his eyes away from Mary's. "Maybe. Not now, I think something like that would end with both of us in tears. But when I'm ready, and when she's ready." He pauses thoughtfully, then continues. "I miss him, Mary. I miss him so much."

"I know you do."

* * *

 

He manages to consume everything on his breakfast tray, something he hasn't been able to do since he was wounded. He eats everything greedily; the eggs, the toast, the tea. He usually had a hard time working up any sort of appetite thanks to the pain medication he had been prescribed, but he is so hungry this morning, that hardly matters at all.

"You're feeling better, I take it?" Mary asks, watching as he takes the last sip of his second cup of tea.

Matthew shrugs. "Hungry, at least. Less exhausted, maybe."

"Good," Mary says, taking the tray from beside him over to a table at the edge of the room. "Dr. Warren is going to come by today, probably around noon. Is there anything you'd like to do before then?"

Matthew nods. "Take a bath, if that's possible." He hasn't bathed, really bathed, since his last leave before his injury. Sponge baths in the hospital had been fine to remove the dirt and grime that war had caked onto his skin, but he never quite felt truly clean after them.

"There's no bathroom on this level, but I'll see what we can do."

"I'm sure I can manage up the stairs," Matthew says, reaching for his crutches.

"I'm not sure that's the wisest idea."

Matthew sighs. "It can't be that difficult, can it? I know I'm a little bit unsteady but I can manage. Really, I'd like to have an actual bedroom as well. We can figure it out."

Mary doesn't indicate it, but her heart flutters at his use of 'we'.

She watches as he stands up, ready to jump in and steady him if he needs it. He doesn't; he manages to stand up stably and move toward her. "See, I managed," he says proudly.

"Well, I guess we need to try out some stairs then," Mary says, observing him carefully as he hobbles across the library. She opens the door for him and he makes his way out, coming to the foot of a wide flight of stairs. 

"How are we going to do this?" he asks, half to himself.

Mary stares at the stairs, pressing her lips together. "I'll be right here if you lose your balance."

He almost smiles. "I certainly hope I won't fall on you."

"I'm here in case you do."

Tentatively, he place his crutches on the first step. He puts his good foot on the step, one hand on the railing and manages to pull himself up without losing his balance. "That's not too bad," he says. He manages a few more steps, Mary behind him all the way. "I think I can do it, I just probably won't want to do it any more than I have to."

"That's fair," Mary says, still looking on with a concerned eye.

He eventually makes it to the top, almost running into Isobel.

"Matthew! What are you doing up here?" she asks, her mouth rounded into a shape of surprise.

He smiles sheepishly, and Mary can see the young lawyer she once new in the lines by his eyes. "I need a bath. A real one, in a real tub."

"Let's see what we can do then," Isobel says, coming by her son to help as he makes his way down the hall.

Mary stands behind on the stairs and watches.

* * *

 

Fresh, clean, and full of Daisy's delicious cooking, Matthew finds himself in bed in his relatively large new bedroom. "Doctor Warren should be here soon. After that, though, you should take a nap," Isobel says, sitting in a chair next to the bed.

"I slept pretty much all of yesterday," Matthew protests, although weakly. He is tired; the stairs took a lot out of him and his eyelids feel droopy.

Isobel gives him a motherly glare. "You will take a nap, Matthew. Your body needs it."

He knocks his head against the headboard in frustration and immediately regrets it; his concussion is mostly healed but a pounding headache begins to manifest itself, an unpleasant reminder.

"I know this is hard," Isobel continues.

Matthew stares out the window next to his bed. Scotland is beautiful, Scotland is lovely and green and miles away from France, and he has to concentrate on the beauty outside his window or he will fall back to France. He can feel the pounding inside his head turn to a pounding anger towards his mother, towards his words. Intellectually, he knows she means well, but she can't possibly understand, and the fact that she pretends to angers him. "Do you? Do you really?" he murmurs, his fist clenched. This is so irrational, he tells himself, so ridiculous, but nothing helps. His head pounds, his legs ache, his shoulders sting from the work of hauling himself around on crutches, and his mind betrays him at every step, telling what is real and what is not, but being oh so wrong. How can his mother possibly understand?

"You're hurting, both physically and emotionally. But you can heal. We're going to help you heal, but you have to let us help."

She is so rational, and he can't stand it. There are so many thoughts rushing through his brain, and he knows which ones he should listen to. 'She loves you.' 'She means well.' 'She knows exactly what she's doing, she's a nurse.' But he can't focus on those thoughts. The ones that overwhelm him are horrific visions of France, things that he can never unsee and that his mother could never imagine. How could she heal him from that when she has no idea what he has seen, no idea what he has been through.

The anger is irrational, but he is utterly irrational, unable to focus on what his mind knows is true but his broken soul cannot accept. "You can't!" he yells. The words coming out of his mouth are loud and horrible but the sane parts of his brain are not strong enough to override it. "You have no idea, no idea at all what I went through over there, what I've seen, the people I killed... I killed people, Mother, and I felt no remorse because that was what I was supposed to do and then I did it and they told me I was a good soldier, they promoted me for it. And now this is my punishment, and so it's pointless! You can't heal me, I don't deserve to be healed!"

Isobel tries to hide it, but she is shocked and unsure of how to respond. A small part of Matthew feels glee at this, shocking his nearly imperturbable mother, but most of him is just breaking down, with angry sobs and broken cries.

Everything, rationality and irrationally, sanity and insanity, love and hatred, unhappiness and acceptance... it all battles inside him and the bubble breaks.

But not enough.

There is very little catharsis in this, he realizes, as the sobs come to a close. He is still broken, still empty, still so very angry.

But his mother, his mother who can handle nearly anything life throws at her...

She cannot handle this.

He can't put her through this.

He has to push these battles down, keep them on the inside. They are what he deserves, but he cannot let his mother fight them for him. He doesn't want her to be broken too.

"It's alright, Matthew," she is saying, and she rubs his back gently. She is clearly still perturbed, but desperately fighting to hide it.

He acquiesces to her touch and tries to empty his mind of the dark thoughts that overtook. An empty mind is better than a broken one. He relaxes, and his tears begin to fall away, and no more come to replace them.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, raggedly. He is not, not really. At least, not for his thoughts. Because, despite his irrationality, he tells himself that he is right, that his mother has no idea what he is going through, and that gives him a right to be angry at her.

Isobel presses her face into her shoulder and envelops him in a warm, motherly hug. "I know. It's hard."

It takes every bit of Matthew's willpower to keep his thoughts from spiraling onto the same track, and that is frankly exhausting.

* * *

Mary hears Matthew's impassioned yelling as she waits downstairs for the doctor to come. Part of her wants to go to him, but she reminds herself that Isobel knows better how to deal with this, and she needs to be here when the doctor arrives.

Dr. Warren arrives unceremoniously, in a car that couldn't possibly be that old but just looks old, worn down from overuse and irresponsible driving. He is small, shorter than Mary, stocky, and grey bearded with a mass of curly black hair on top of his head. He seems harried, in a perpetual rush, and his words come out fast and thick.

"Good afternoon. Where might I find Captain Crawley, Miss..."

Mary shakes his outstretched hand dully. "Lady Mary."

"Ah, Lady Mary. Dr. Clarkson mentioned you in his letters. Captain Crawley's cousin?" Dr. Warren asks, taking off his own coat and putting on the rack in the hall without the help that Molesley offers. It reminds Mary of Matthew when he first came to Downton, and it makes her smile a little.

"Yes," Mary replies. "Captain Crawley is upstairs, if you'll come with me."

Dr. Warren picks up his bag and follows Mary up the stairs into Matthew's room. Mary stops him just before they reach the door. "I'm not sure if Dr. Clarkson appraised you of his full condition aside from the physical. He's suffering, quite badly, from shellshock."

"Clarkson did say something about that. I'm afraid I'm not well equipped to treat that," Dr. Warren says, uncomfortably.

"It seems very few doctors are," Mary replies. "I was hoping we could find a specialist but there seems to be none to be found."

Dr. Warren shakes his head. "It's a new field. Men coming back from the wars before this one, they didn't come back quite like this. They had nightmares sometimes but they never let their memories inhibit them. Obviously they were made of sterner stuff than this men."

"Or perhaps this war was just so much worse," Mary murmurs. "Please, be gentle with him. If he yells at you, or reacts badly, that's not really who he is. He's struggling, and he knows he's struggling, and it's not his fault."

Unimpressed but acquiescent, Dr. Warren nods and knocks on the door. "Come in," Isobel calls out, so he pushes the door open and steps inside.

Mary can immediately see that Matthew has been crying, and too her surprise, Isobel looks pale and afraid. She wonders how bad his last episode was, if it shocked Isobel so deeply.

"Captain Crawley," Dr. Warren says, making his way over to the bed. "It's good to meet you."

Matthew shakes Dr. Warren's outstretched hand dully. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, Dr. Clarkson explained to me your rather... unusual situation but I was happy to take you on as a patient," the doctor says offhandedly. "He mailed me your file, so I've looked over it. You had a bullet wound to the leg that also fractured your femur in several pieces?"

Matthew nods grimly.

"I expect it's quite painful?"

"Yes," Matthew replies, his voice quiet.

Dr. Warren sits down on the chair next to Matthew's bed and scribbles something down in the file. "Clarkson sent me an x-ray of it a few weeks ago, but I'd like you to come in to my hospital next week for another one so we can see how it's healing. Otherwise, I won't know much."

"Alright."

"How are you managing mobility wise?"

Matthew presses his lips together. "Managing is perhaps the best word to describe it. I can get around, I was able to get up the stairs today, although it took a while. But I'm more steady than I was."

Dr. Warren nods. "Good, it'll get better, but don't push yourself too hard. I'm sure you're tired of hearing this, but you really do need to rest. I don't expect you ever got much sleep at the front."

Matthew's eyes turn dark and Mary immediately reaches for his hand. "No," he replies sullenly.

"Well now you're making up for lost time. This is a very quiet place, take advantage of it, and let your body heal," Dr. Warren says. "And how has... your mind been? I am by no means a psychologist, but Dr. Clarkson informed me of what was going on."

There's nothing Matthew wants to talk about less with this doctor, and he doesn't want to have another outburst and scare his mother and Mary. So he keeps his face sullen and drawn and shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Talking helps," the doctor says. "Now, what is it that caused this? Was it something specific or..."

"I don't know, I don't want to talk about it," Matthew says, a little more forcefully this time. _Not with you_ is implied. He is wary around this doctor; he can't trust Warren yet.

And Dr. Warren certainly doesn't help matters. "If you open up, if you tell me, I can help. It will help you."

"You have no idea what will help me," Matthew begins, his voice dangerously low. His head is pounding, a mounting pain behind his eyes, and he knows he is headed for a breakdown. But his voice remains remarkably steady. "You and all the other doctors who say they can help. You all think I'm a wimp, that my poor delicate constitution couldn't take it out there. But I survived four years of that hell, and let me tell you, it was hell. You can't know what it felt like out there, with the mud and the stench and all the dead and you just kept killing people, men like you who had families and wives and children at home but just had the misfortune of being on the other side, and then once you killed them, they gave you a medal for it. The more men you killed, the higher you got promoted, the more respected you were. What kind of a screwed up system is that? And then you would hear the cries of your own dead, you would watch as boys, they could hardly be called men they were so young, died in your arms from gas or a bullet or a shell and there it was, another life taken by this brutal war. I survived it, four years of that, and now I can't... I can't process it all in a healthy way. But I seriously doubt that anything you can say to me right now can do anything to help me get over that in a matter of minutes. It's not easy to rest from a four year journey through hell, Dr. Warren."

Matthew looks absolutely exhausted, but he has managed to avoid any yelling or even raising his voice. His tone is even, measured, calm, as he describes the horrors.

Dr. Warren isn't sure what to say. Finally, he picks up his chart. "Well, Captain Crawley, I'll be calling here in a few days to arrange your next appointment. It was good to meet you." He leaves without another word.

Only once Dr. Warren is gone does Matthew let go of Mary's hand.

He stares at the door, his jaw clenched, unable to say anything.

"Matthew," Mary says softly, rubbing his shoulder. "It's alright, you're fine. You're here, with me and your mother."

He nods, blinking back tears. "And they wonder why this whole generation is so messed up when they come back."

"It's horrible," Mary replies.

"That's an understatement." He swallows thickly, lifting his eyes to meet Mary's. "He doesn't understand. None of them do. They all think they can help, but they can't. I'm not sure you can help."

Mary glances to Isobel in desperation. Isobel, despite hearing these words earlier, is still unsure of what to do with them. Finally Mary says, "I can't promise you that we can do anything significant to help. But I promise we'll try our best."

Matthew stares straight ahead and finally acknowledges what Mary says with a short nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. Processing

There is a door that connects Mary's room to Matthew's. No one has noticed it besides Mary and probably Anna, because it is half hidden behind a wardrobe and it blends it seamlessly with the wall. But Mary certainly has noticed it, and she has ensured that it is unlocked. Just in case, of course.

Part of her wonders if the unlocked door is utter foolishness. As she checks the handle, morose memories of the night Kemal Pamuk came into her room wash over her, and she remembers that is why she is here. Because Pamuk... because she slept with Pamuk, and because Richard decided to publish.

The last day has been mercifully free of the story, besides her own intrusive thoughts, and Mary is beyond grateful for the reclusive house and the isolated location. Mary has always enjoyed social events but has given little previous thought to the benefits of relative isolation, and she finds that she rather enjoys it. Naturally, everyone in the house knows of the story, but they know the whole story, not Richard's libelous, spin-filled version. Dr. Warren, it seems, is too busy judging shellshocked soldiers for their delicate dispositions to read such a salacious article in a newspaper from London. The house in Scotland provides exactly the freedom she desires.

Mary checks the door one more time before she goes to bed. She is not concerned about Matthew pulling a Pamuk and walking in on her; it is hard enough for him to walk, and the door is even less obvious on Matthew's side, tucked in a dark corner next to his bathroom. She doubts he has noticed, and more importantly, she doubts Isobel has noticed.

But why is the door so important?

She hates to admit it to herself, but her heart flutters at the idea of having direct access to Matthew, of not having to risk being seen in the hallway in order to get into his room. If he cries out in the middle of the night, she can help him, and nobody will have to know of something that, even in an isolated country house with understanding residents, would be risqué.

Mary is unsurprised when he cries out, waking her from a sleep that was not so deep anyway. She lies in her bed for five minutes, willing him to go back to sleep on his own. Isobel is either deeply asleep or unable to hear her son, as she is in the room across the hall.

When it becomes clear that Matthew is not going to easily go back to sleep, Mary rolls out of her bed, slips on her dressing gown, wraps a blanket around her shoulders, and slowly creaks the door into Matthew's room open.

He is thrashing, troubled, and trying to stay in control but failing miserably. Mary can't quite make out what his whispered words are saying, but she can hear occasionally, 'William' and her heart clenches for him.

"Matthew," she whispers. Softly, so softly. She remembers when her father first came back from war; he was far less damaged than Matthew, but loud noises still startled him easily for a while. Matthew, then, seems to be far more susceptible.

He rolls over and squints to make her out in the dark. "No, you can't be out here," he says. He seems to be trying to scream, but there is not enough voice to allow him to do so.

"You're in bed, Matthew. In your home for now, up here in Scotland," Mary begins. She begins with the facts; if Matthew does not understand the simple facts of time and place, he will understand little else.

He rubs his eyes, blinks, and adjusts to the light. "No matter where it is, you can't be here," he whispers roughly. "Why are you in my bedroom?"

She breathes a sigh of relief; he knows where he is. "Because you were screaming and I couldn't sleep."

This typical glib answer, in years past, would have caused Matthew to laugh. But this is not the old Matthew. His face crumbles, and Mary realizes with a pang how different and fragile this Matthew is, how he is so broken and almost humorless.

"Matthew..." She sits on the edge of his bed. Maybe it's a daring move, but there in the dark, it seems so natural. "I didn't mean it that way."

"How did you mean it then?" he sniffles. "I'm sorry, I'm a burden to everyone and I'm keeping you awake and..."

Mary interrupts him by shushing him softly. "You're not. I'm in here because you seemed to be having a nightmare and I wanted to help you."

"Can you even be in here? I mean..."

Mary shushes him again. "Who's going to tell? If they even come in here, which I doubt they will."

He almost manages to laugh. "Your sense of propriety has disappeared, Lady Mary."

"It appears your sense of humor has not," Mary shoots back.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

Mary shakes her head. "Not at all. In fact, I'm glad you still have it. The war hasn't broken you completely."

His mood changes almost instantly. "Just mostly."

"Matthew..."

He thumps his head back onto the pillows and stares up at the ceiling, not really seeing anything. "I heard what Dr. Warren said. About shellshocked soldiers. How we're just weak, and delicate."

"And you told him off for it, and I was proud of you."

Matthew sighs. "I was exceptionally rude to him."

"You were making a point. You happened to be right. And now, he probably doesn't expect kindness out of you, but he knows what you're facing, or at least a slice of it. And that will help in the long run."

"I hate talking about it, you know," he says softly. "It gets coaxed out of me. People ask me, or they pretend that they know what I'm going through and there's just this urge to tell them that they have no idea. Otherwise, they'll continue to say things that don't help." He begins to shake. "I hate remembering, Mary. But now that's a part of who I am, whether I choose for it to be or not. Even if I don't remember, people will ask, and that will remind me. I never thought I'd consider men who ended up with amnesia as lucky, but if they can wipe their memories of the war, then they are very lucky indeed." His voice is husky, and shaking, and he wipes away tears.

Mary puts an arm around him to try and stop the shaking. She notices that she is lying on the bed next to him, and while in a past world, she would have been bothered due to the impropriety of the situation, she is not bothered right now. She doesn't say anything. She knows there is nothing that she can say, and Matthew will be all the better if she doesn't say anything.

He doesn't make much noise, just lays quietly and lets the tears run down his face. Finally, he turns his head to look at her. "I'm glad you're here. I know it's not proper and after Pamuk your reputation..."

"Matthew, you don't have to..."

"Do you want to talk about it? I'll leave it alone if you don't want to but if you want to talk about it... Everything here has been about my problems and I know you're suffering too, and if it helps to talk about it and not keep it bottled up, then you should, and I'll be here to listen."

Mary sighs. They are so close, their noses are almost touching, and she can feel the intensity of the situation palpate between them. "Didn't you say that with this kind of thing, you don't want to remember? And you hate that people force you to?"

He draws in a breath and stares at the ceiling again. "Without the shellshock practically forcing me to remember, I would have never talked about it. And I know that's unhealthy too, or at least I assume it is because Mother keeps telling me that it would be. So... maybe it would help you to talk about it?"

"What is there to say? I made a mistake, I kept it hidden for so long, it came out, now it's out in the open and I don't have to keep the secret anymore. If anything, it hasn't been bottled up. It's been dumped out for all the world to see."

Matthew turns back to Mary again and looks into her eyes, so intensely it almost disconcerting. "Was it your choice?"

"Matthew..."

"So it wasn't your choice," he says bluntly.

Mary throws her hands up in frustration. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters," Matthew says. He is surprisingly patient, and she can feel his hand just barely brushing against hers.

She shivers.

"I... never invited him in. I never even told him where my room was, I'm not sure how he found it. I asked him to leave, but there was really no point. He pointed out that if I screamed, they would find me with a man in my room and I would be ruined anyway. So... I just let him. There was no point in protesting, and my secret would be safer this way. But then... he just died."

Matthew is quiet, but Mary can see that his mind is working. "He raped you, Mary."

"No, I let him..."

Matthew interrupts, his voice stronger. "He raped you, and you've been living with this burden, thinking it was your fault."

"It was my mistake and I've paid for it."

"You shouldn't have had to pay anything. Carlisle has twisted the story and made you look completely responsible, and Pamuk raped you, and if he weren't dead I might kill him myself."

Mary isn't sure whether to be frustrated with him or to smile. "I'm not sure that's helping..."

"Well, doesn't it help to realize that this isn't your fault?"

Mary turns her head to look at him, to really look at him, and she manages to smile. "It does, a little bit. I'm… still not sure you understand completely..."

"I think I understand well enough," Matthew says, "although I couldn't claim universal understanding. But no matter what, I know I could never despise you, so this matter makes little difference to me."

Mary tries to ignore the feeling of her heart soaring. "Now that is good to hear."

His hand is completely on hers now, and they are so close, definitely closer than is proper, but who would know? "I'm glad. I guess Mother is right, and talking about it does help."

"Will you take that lesson to heart, then?"

Matthew manages a chuckle. "I've been forced to take it to heart."

Mary squints at the clock on the wall, illuminated by the moonlight coming from Matthew's window. The curtain is open wide. "Do you want the curtain open like that?"

"Yes," he says softly. "I'll... I don't want to be in the dark."

She nods. "I probably should go back to my room. It's almost five."

"Yes. don't want to get... caught together."

"Thank you," she says, and she means it more genuinely than nearly anything she has ever said. "You've helped me."

He smiles. "I guess we help each other."

There is very little for her to say in response. She rolls off of the bed and gives him one last glance. "Do you need anything before I go?"

"No," he replies. "I think I'm content."

"Good."

She quietly slips back into her room.

* * *

There are of course, bad days and good days for Matthew. The bad days are more typical; he'll wake up in a cold sweat after finally falling asleep after hours of sleeplessness, he'll react badly to something someone says, he'll slip into believing he's in France again, he'll sit sullenly and won't speak to anyone. There are good days, too. He'll talk pleasantly with Mary and Isobel, he'll read contentedly in the library, he'll work on his physical therapy and improve visibly. Then there are the bad days that are worse than bad. Mary calls the very first day in Scotland the worst day, at first, but she discovers, several more times, that the worst day has not yet come. There is a worst day, eventually. Not quite yet.

* * *

The third day in Scotland, Matthew does not manage to make it downstairs; he hardly slept the night before (partially on Mary, although neither of them would admit that) so he decided that instead of exhausting himself with the stairs, he would practice with the crutches in his bedroom and spend his time reading. He is quiet all day, pondering the previous night and what happened with Mary. They are not alone for most of the day, however. Isobel hovers like a hawk, and while Matthew loves his mother with all his heart, he sometimes wishes she would just go away. There is this new tension between himself and Mary; they are not awkward, but they are certainly unsure. Last night had been so odd, he isn't even certain it happened. After all, it is considerably more difficult for him to distinguish reality within his memory now. But then he looks at Mary, he sees her furtive glances, and he knows that it was all real.

Honesty, brutal honesty about feelings, is something Matthew supposes he should be familiar with as of late. After all, every doctor he speaks with wants to know the ins and outs of his brain, his mental process, his memory, because the damage is apparently so fascinating. Which is all well and good for them, because they don't have to suffer the consequences of possessing such a broken mind. But Matthew knows exactly what it is like to have to share his thoughts and feelings with brutal honesty, under such direct scrutiny.

But with Mary, it is different.

Mary doesn't see him as something to be observed, a perfect little specimen of shellshock to poke and prod at and investigate. He can't blame the doctors for their fascination; it is a funny thing, a future earl, expected to possess a stiff upper lip and to be a picture of decorum, to be so damaged, so unable to control himself, so angry and bitter and potentially crazy. After all, how weak does a man have to be, to be transformed thus? But for Mary, it is not about the shellshock. It is about him, Matthew, and how to best help him. And Matthew wonders if maybe, after Pamuk, Mary experiences a type of shellshock too. A response to a traumatic event, and her rape would certainly qualify. As Matthew replays every bit he's heard of Mary's story over and over in his head, he becomes more and more convinced that she was raped, and he feels such an anger that the world judges her for something that is out of her control.

He wonders if it will be that way for him, once he must leave this sheltered house and try to adjust back to the world. There seems to be no end in sight to the damage, no light at the end of a long tunnel of trying to repair his fractured mind. He is resigned to the idea that he will always be broken by the war. But after hearing what Dr. Warren said, about the apparent 'weakness' of shellshocked soldiers, he wonders if the world will treat him much the same as they treated Mary. The war was out of his control, and his wounds, both physical and mental, were out of his control. But the world, those who didn't fight in the war, they will not understand. They will see him as weak, and unfit, and possibly crazy. He imagines it painfully; 'Did you hear about the new Earl of Grantham? I hear they keep him locked up in his house because the war made him go insane. If he weren't an earl, they'd send him to an asylum'.

He has to get better. He can't face the rest of the world without getting better.

But he is so scared that he can't get better.

His whole life was ahead of him before the war, even during it. He had a law career, a fiancee, a huge inheritance and automatic social position waiting for him... But what use are any of those things now when he can't even close his eyes before he is back in France and screaming to no one who can hear?

He presses his lips together and clenches the sheets, willing the impending breakdown away.

But, despite how irrational he knows he's being, the breakdown comes.

It is not a good day.

* * *

The next day, however, is the first good day.

Matthew makes it down the stairs fairly quickly and without trouble, and relaxes in a large armchair by the fire, his leg propped up on an ottoman, feeling comfortable and unusually free of anxiety.

He settles in with a book, and absorbs himself in it for most of the morning. It has been such a long time since he was able to sit down and read just to do it, rather than to keep his mind off something, and it is a wonderful feeling to read for the sake of gaining knowledge independently, and to read for fun.

Mary comes in mid-morning, and curls up in the corner of the couch across from him, just watching him for a few minutes. Finally, she decides to interrupt. "What are you reading?"

"Around the World in Eighty Days," Matthew replies offhandedly.

She almost smiles. "Funny. I seem to remember you reading that same book during the last season." She doesn't just seem to remember it, she remembers it perfectly. How she managed to get his face out of the book and how his lips touched hers and how they were engaged in passionate kissing until they realized they were in the library and someone could walk in at any moment. She misses how carefree and in love they were.

"Well, I seem to remember you distracting me," he teases. "I never got a chance to finish the book before we went back to Downton, and it wasn't in your father's library at Downton and I never bothered to buy it, and then the war happened so... I guess I finally get a chance to finish it."

"Quite the hiatus," Mary smirks.

"Indeed."

He returns to his book, but Mary so desperately wants to keep talking with him, to keep reminiscing about those lovely days before the war, when everything seemed so perfect. "I think that was my favorite season of them all."

"Not your debut? If it was anything like Sybil's ball, it must have been quite grand." He looks up from the book and puts it, pages down, on the armrest, and settles back in the chair.

"Not quite as grand as Sybil's, but nice nonetheless. I was engaged to Patrick then, so my parents didn't see the point in wasting too much money on a ball meant to attract suitors when I was already engaged."

Matthew shrugs. "I guess that's fair. But still, Sybil's ball was your favorite season? Even with all the rumors swirling about London with the whole Pamuk affair?"

"You noticed? I thought you hadn't."

He looks down at his lap sheepishly. "I didn't notice. But Mother told me about it a few days ago. I feel bad for not noticing but..."

"No, don't be. I didn't really want you to notice, I wanted you to hear it from me instead. But then I never got the courage to tell you."

"I was rather oblivious to the way things were, then. I must have been an embarrassment."

Mary laughs prettily, and leans her head against the arm of the couch. "I thought it was rather endearing, actually, how you didn't know how things were done."

"I don't think many of your high society friends thought so."

"Did they laugh at you sometimes? Oh, that didn't mean they didn't like you. They might have found you a tad bit ...improper, but I think they rather enjoyed having a man around who hadn't been in tails since the day he was born. You shook things up a bit."

Matthew rolls his eyes. "Hardly. I was just clueless. Like at Sybil's ball, when I asked one of the musicians to dance with me..."

"That was quite funny, I'll admit. You'd been at Downton almost two years, how did you make that mistake?"

He shrugs genially. "She was wearing an elegant dress and she wasn't playing on that song so I didn't realize she was a musician, she was sitting all alone and… well, I needed to start dancing with someone, and she seemed available."

Mary grins and shakes her head. "Despite all that, you still had eyes all over you."

"Did I?"

"You didn't notice? A few of Sybil's friends, at the ball?"

He blushes fiercely, staring down at his lap. "I never noticed them. I suppose... then, I only had eyes for you." Still, he only has eyes for her, but no good would be done from admitting it, so he quiets himself.

"They were following you around like pathetic little puppies all night, once they did their obligatory dances with their supposed beaus. Of course, I can't blame them. You were quite handsome and charming despite your mistakes and of course, the heir to a lovely estate. A perfect package, really."

Matthew is nearly beet red, blushing furiously, unable to look Mary in the eye. "I'm not sure I agree with you, but maybe back then... Certainly not now."

Mary can sense the impending breakdown, and she panics, trying to think of a way to pull his mind away. "You're still handsome, still charming, you're still the heir... Nothing is missing in the package, it just got a little beat up upon delivery. Nothing that can't be fixed."

"It's lovely of you to say that, but..."

"I say it because it's true. But I won't argue with you because that would be unproductive. It's past noon, would you like some luncheon?"

Matthew hasn't had much of an appetite lately, but he nods and smiles. "I'd like that."

He looks back to his book as if nothing has happened. Mary holds her breath, waiting for a breakdown to come, but it never does. At least, not that day. Once the luncheon trays are brought up and Matthew continues reading happily with a full stomach, she begins to let down her guard. This is better, she thinks, that he was on the brink of something, but he didn't fall.

He's getting better, she tells herself.

She relaxes on the couch and gazes across at him, still contentedly reading his book. He's getting better. The words are reassuring, and Mary smiles.

* * *

The next few days, however, seem like setbacks.

The rain sets in, pounding on the roof and pouring down the windows, and with the gray sky Matthew's mood becomes gray. He spends the whole next day sulking in bed, or at least he appears to be sulking.

But he also appears to be struggling.

Mary tries to talk to him, but he does not respond.

He stares straight ahead.

Lifelessly.

But he stares at something.

Mary tries to insert herself into his field of vision, to distract him, to get him to notice her and break away from whatever he is so intently focused on.

But it doesn't work.

"Matthew," she whispers, grabbing his hand. "Matthew, do you want a book from downstairs.

No response.

It's almost eerie, how blue his eyes are. How they stare straight ahead and yet do not seem to see anything. How she can nearly see the tears in his eyes that threaten to flow, but stay behind the floodgates.

He finally begins to speak. But they are not words that make sense.

"Why are you here?" he asks thickly.

He says it to the wall, not to Mary.

He continues. "You're dead."

Obviously not to Mary.

Matthew tries to ignore it. The rational part of his brain that still seems to work, small as it might be, tells him that it can't be real.

But Matthew feels he has become very adept of late at rejecting his own rational thoughts.

And every time he glances back at the corner of the room, he catches a glimpse of the thing he is trying to ignore.

It is William.

Or rather, it is a visage of William. He looks like William, enough, but much paler, and bloodier, and lacking the innocent charm that William bore to his last day. The figure grins, but it is frightening and unsettling, and Matthew is trying to ignore it.

But while he can ignore the rational part of his brain easily enough, he can't ignore the grinning visage of his dead friend in the corner of his bedroom.

"Why are you here?" he asks, choking over his own words. He isn't certain he wants to hear the answer. "You're dead."

William stands, and Matthew realizes there was nothing for him to be sitting on. This isn't real, he tells himself. It can't possibly be real.

But he can't take his eyes off of the William-thing. And it speaks, in a voice that is unsettlingly like William's and yet out of place somehow. "That's right. I'm dead. I died for you."

"Your sacrifice is..."

"My sacrifice was pointless," he says, making his way to the foot of the bed. "You're a mess now and it probably won't get any better and I'm left behind, forever twenty-five years old, forever a tragedy that your kind exploit but never really care much for anyway."

Matthew stares, not blinking. "I'm sorry..."

"Of course, you're sorry. You're lucky you can be sorry. You're alive. Look at that."

Matthew looks at the William-thing with wide, frightened eyes, as it approaches his bed. It definitely does look like William, but the sunken eyes, the curled lip, the cheeks void of William's rosy glow... it can't be William.

"I'm..." But Matthew's mouth cannot make the words to apologize, or argue.

He reaches out to touch it.

Instead a warm hand presses over his.

He blinks, and William is gone.

Mary is there instead.

It should be a relief, but it is not.

"Where's William?" he asks, frantically.

"William?" Mary's voice is skeptical, but a dawning realization falls upon her.

Matthew's gaze darts around the room. "He was right there, right next to you!" He points at the spot on the wall, and shakes his head. "He was taunting me, talking about how his sacrifice wasn't worth it. And it wasn't. I realize that now. He was so young, he had so much life left in him, and he died to save this broken mess of a..."

Mary takes Matthew's face in both of her hands, staring into his eyes with unexpected intensity. "No," she says, fiercely. "Don't say that, because it isn't true."

He tries to look away, but Mary doesn't let him. He sighs in frustration, "I know you want to believe that but..."

She stares at him with more fervor. "It's a tragedy that William died. But it also would have been a tragedy if you died. Do you know how grateful I am that you are alive? Do you know how grateful your mother is? If you had died out there, she would have no one at all. If anything, think about her."

He doesn't know where to look, but he doesn't want to look at Mary. There is nothing worse than conviction. "I know, but..."

"You're alive, and there's nothing more important than life."

He shakes his head. "You couldn't possibly understand."

"No, I can't, but you have to let me! I want to help you, Matthew, let me help you."

His voice is very quite, almost disturbingly so. He presses his lips together and sighs heavily. "Oh, Mary, I wish you could."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your support means so much!


	10. Examination

The next, gloomy day, Shrimpie's car arrives to take them to the hospital for Matthew's appointment. The chauffeur pulls up in front of the house and they get in the car, travel along the bumpy roads for several miles, and arrive in a pleasant, bustling town. The car pulls in front of a tall, probably once stately, but somewhat dilapidated looking building near the town's center.

Dr. Warren's office is one on the ground floor, and the receptionist ushers Mary, Matthew, and Isobel into a waiting room. Isobel absently pages through a newspaper, and Matthew watches intently. He has not read the news since they came to Scotland, and while he hates hearing about war, he needs to know how it is going.

"Mother," he whispers. There is no good reason for him to whisper but it just seems more appropriate in the waiting room setting. "What's going on in the war? And... how did Amiens turn out?"

Isobel looks up at him and her face pulls into a sort of half smile. "We won at Amiens decisively," she says evenly.

She expects Matthew to be happy at this news, but instead he frowns. "I got a letter from my commanding officer, just before we came here. He didn't mention the victory at all. He just talked about how many men they lost out there."

"Matthew..."

"I'm glad we're winning, of course I am. It's nice to know that I didn't fight and lose myself for nothing, but I can't help but wonder if any of this is worth it."

Mary places a hand on his uninjured knee. "That's the shellshock speaking."

"No..." Matthew says, quietly by adamantly. "It isn't." He looks away from his mother and Mary as much as he can. "I thought about a lot of this out there in the trenches. Wondering whether it was worth it to kill men just like me; fathers, sons, brothers, friends...they all belonged to someone. And they could just have easily taken my life as I took theirs. And we were shooting at each other for what? A land dispute? Nationalism? I didn't even know what I was fighting for, to be honest. But I couldn't say any of that, not out loud. I was an officer, a goddamn officer, and I was supposed to inspire these other men to go die for those same unclear reasons. I couldn't let them know that I didn't know what I was fighting for."

Mary stares at him with sad eyes. "But you fought, just like you were supposed to. And you came back to us."

"But was that what I was supposed to do? It all seems so futile now that I look back... it was just following orders."

"Which was the right thing to do in the situation," Mary assures him.

He presses his lips together and stares at the floor, unresponsive. Finally he turns away and murmurs, "I'm not sure it was."

* * *

The nurse mercifully saves Matthew from his dark thoughts by coming into the room and calling his name. "Are you ready to come back, Captain Crawley?" she asks.

Isobel helps him up and he follows the nurse out of the room.

Mary and Isobel remain behind.

"How do you think he'll manage when the war is over?" Mary asks. "Will it be better or worse?"

"I couldn't tell you," Isobel replies, "but hopefully better."

Matthew's words repeat themselves over and over in Mary's mind.  _I can't help but wonder if any of this was worth it. I didn't even know what I was fighting for. I'm not sure I was doing the right thing._ And it reminds Mary of something else she has heard repeated over and over again.  _I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve this._

It angers her because she knows Matthew doesn't deserve any of this, and she would give anything to stop this if she could. It surprises her, but the more she thinks about it, the truer it rings. Here she is, in the middle of Scotland, escaping from Downton and what she deserves; and it's to help him.

There's something satisfactory, or at least there would be, about suffering through the judgment and the glances at home, because she at least could have faced her mistake. She realizes she looks like a coward, and she is as good as admitting that she slept with Kemal Pamuk (and possibly killed him intentionally, although she doesn't seem to remember that bit), but she doesn't care. Because being up here, being here for Matthew, that is not cowardice.

It may look cowardly to be here and it may cause more struggles within society about the Pamuk case but she realizes that she is healing. For so long, Pamuk left an open wound on her heart and soul that never quite healed, try as she might to ignore it and bandage it. That night with Matthew... it finally tore the bandage off and while it was painful, she can feel it healing. She is healing.

If Matthew can help her, she certainly can help him.

There is resolve in her expression and her thoughts. She is here for him, and she will help him through his darkest thoughts, and as the war draws to a close she will draw him away from it.

Matthew will be okay.

She'll make sure of it.

* * *

The nurse comes out with a chart and a concerned expression on her pinched face. "You're Captain Crawley's family, correct?"

Isobel nods and holds out her hand. "Isobel Crawley, his mother. And this is Lady Mary Crawley."

"You're his wife?"

Mary tries to conceal her blush. "No, his cousin."

"Sorry," the nurse replies brusquely. She doesn't seem to care for her job, and her expression is dull as she begins to speak. "Dr. Warren wanted me to speak to you before he lets Captain Crawley go."

Isobel presses her lips together. "What is it?"

"The x-ray on his leg showed signs of healing but not as much as we would hope at this stage. The damage to the muscle from the bullet is also slow to repair, and his patellar tendon was nearly completely torn. Mrs. Crawley, Dr. Warren informs me you're also a nurse, so you should understand why this will be so difficult."

Isobel's eyes are blank, but she nods.

"In a few months, it should be healed enough for him to walk on, but it won't ever quite be the same, I'm afraid."

"Dr. Clarkson expected as much," Isobel whispers.

"Dr. Warren also advises that you not inform Captain Crawley of this; he appears to be rather... fragile. Which brings me to the other subject. Dr. Warren, as I'm sure he's told you, is no psychiatrist, but even the least experienced of medical professionals can see madness where it occurs. He says he admires your efforts to try and help Captain Crawley, but he'd like you to consider, perhaps... an asylum."

"No," Isobel says flatly.

The nurse rolls her eyes. "It's not as bad as you might think," she says, her Scottish accent coming out thick. "There's a few just for soldiers, and there's been some success."

"You're not giving my son electrical shocks, or cutting part of his brain out, or beating him until he can hardly respond and then saying he's better. Because none of that will make him better."

The nurse sighs. "Mrs. Crawley, with all due respect, I'm not sure you understand how dire your son's condition is. If you're not careful, he might hurt himself, or he might hurt you. Asylums are much better equipped to deal with that sort of thing."

"With all due respect, I am also a nurse and I happen to know my son better than any doctor. I know Matthew is still with us, I see him in there quite often. Just glimpses, usually, but sometimes there's more, and I'm reassured that my son is still there. No doctor, psychiatrist or otherwise, can convince me that Matthew is mad. Because he isn't. Not truly. Just damaged, and damage can heal over time."

Mary looks on, biting her lip anxiously as the nurse and Isobel stare each other down. Finally, the nurse relents. "Very well, I shall tell Dr. Warren you chose to ignore his suggestion. We will release Captain Crawley to you in a few minutes."

Isobel turns to Mary after the nurse leaves. "Does Dr. Warren really think..."

"I suppose so. Matthew... must have broken down," Mary says softly.

* * *

Matthew comes back into the waiting room looking just as gloomy as when he arrived, perhaps even worse.

Isobel asks him how it was, just casually, but he refuses to answer.

He doesn't say a word as the car travels toward the house. He simply stares out the window with his lips pressed together in a thin line. Completely silent.

When they get to the house, he takes a seat in a chair by a window in the library and places his book open in his lap, but does not read it. He stares out the window sullenly instead.

Isobel and Mary sit with him in his silence for a while, but after about an hour Isobel taps Mary on the wrist and they leave the room. "Let him be for now," Isobel says.

Mary agrees initially, but the waiting is hard. She spends perhaps an hour pacing around the house before deciding to go back into the library.

To her surprise, Matthew speaks.

His voice is so soft she doesn't hear it at first, she doesn't pay attention, but when she looks up she can see that he is trying to speak, whether to her or to nothing in particular. He stares out the window intently.

"I... I blew up on Dr. Warren today," he says softly, in a way that makes Mary wonder how the man sitting before her could ever have fought in a war and killed other human beings. His shellshock makes total sense considering the juxtaposition of who he is and what war is.

Mary doesn't say anything, but she moves closer to him. She touches his hand gently, imploring him to go on.

"He just reminds me of... There was this one commanding officer, I can't remember his name or his rank for the life of me, but he mostly sat behind a desk during the war and occasionally summoned lower officers to Paris to report and get orders and things like that. I know he was doing his job, but he was an arse."

Mary almost laughs; Matthew isn't one to use even the most mild of profanities, especially unapologetically, so she can imagine how much of an arse this officer was.

"One time, I was sent up to Paris in the middle of winter by the major over me to bring back plans and also to ask for further aid, specifically socks."

"Socks?" Mary interjects, if only to prove that she is intently listening.

Matthew seems to appreciate this, and he nods. "Yes, socks. Most men had an awful case of trenchfoot, and all of our socks were disgusting and filthy and cold and miserable. So socks were always a godsend, but this officer was disdainful of the request. He said, 'you're here to bring plans that will eventually save our country, not to shop at Selfridge's'. Of course, he was sitting behind a desk in a pristine office, well protected from the wind and rain roaring outside. And his socks were perfectly dry."

"So what did you do?"

"I took the plans and left," Matthew replies simply. "There was no point in arguing with him, he would continue to be an arse. I had some money with me, I went and bought socks for the men in my unit before going back."

He is too good, Mary thinks in admiration.

"Anyway, Dr. Warren reminded me of him, and all that pent up anger decided it was going to come out and so I spent a good portion of the time screaming at him... I thought he was the officer a few times, and even when I didn't, I was so angry that it didn't matter. I might have hurt him, if I was more mobile."

"And that's why the nurse suggested an asylum?"

Matthew's head snaps up and his eyes grow stormy. "Is that what they want to do with me?"

Mary stares at her feet, unable to look him in the eyes. "The nurse suggested it. Your mother was emphatically against it."

"I can't go to one of those places," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I know I'm unstable and broken and a burden and it's probably selfish of me to be so against it but I can't go to one of those. I've heard what they do there, and it's awful."

"I know it is, and you're not being sent to one of them."

Matthew is so, so vulnerable, almost close to tears, and seems so small and thin surrounded by pillows in the large armchair, his injured leg propped up. "I know I'm broken and maybe I am dangerous sometimes, but I can't... Despite everything, I still can think for myself and I don't want anyone to take that away from me."

"No one will," Mary whispers, placing a hand on his before she can even think about it. "I won't let them."

There is a silence between them, but neither moves their hand; both revel in the touch that seems so innocent yet brings them both together.

"I don't know how to fix things with Dr. Warren," Matthew says. "Both times I've met him have ended with me shouting at him."

"Let him do the orthopedic things, and we'll ask him to stay out of the shellshock business. We'll find you a psychiatrist who actually knows what they're talking about. We'll get you help, Matthew."

"You are help," he replies.


	11. Memory

A few days later, it is brilliantly sunny, and Mary decides to take a look at the horses and stables on the estate.

Mary meets with the groundskeeper, who also takes care of the horses, and arranges to have a horse saddled for a ride on the next sunny day, whenever that would manage to be. She interacts with all the horses and realizes how relaxing this is.

She doesn't want to admit it, but being around Matthew is exhausting. It isn't his fault, not really. He's fragile and he needs care, and she is more than willing to give it, although it is at the cost of her energy. She does not complain, because she easily could have left Matthew alone with Isobel, but she decided to come, she even suggested it. And she wants to see him get better.

But the horses are a needed and well-deserved break.

"Life is so much simpler for you, isn't it?" she says, rubbing the dark nose of Olive, the oldest horse on the estate. "You have no war, no injury, no madness, no scandal. That sounds absolutely lovely about now."

"We dragged them into our war," a voice from behind says.

Mary turns around and mouth drops. "Matthew! What are you doing here?"

He shrugs are best he can while balancing himself on his crutches. "Well when you didn't show up this afternoon I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I wanted to go outside and I figured I'm good enough at walking on these things now to get around so I did. And coming to the stables seemed like a logical step. It didn't occur to me that you'd be here, although it makes perfect sense now that I think about it."

"I'm glad you're feeling up to that now," she says, sincerely.

He gives her a tight smile. "Yes. I'm sorry for interrupting you, I'm sure you want to be alone and away from me right now since you almost never are it seems."

Could he read her mind? That is exactly how she feels, although she means it in no offense to him and she is concerned that he is taking it offensively.

Her silence gives him an answer. "I thought so. It's alright, I'm not mad. I don't deserve all the attention you give me and if I had any chance to get away from me right now, I would take it in a heartbeat." He sighs begins to leave the stables. "Are you going to ride anytime soon?"

"I arranged with the groundskeeper to ride whenever the next sunny day is," Mary says softly.

"Good, good. I'm glad."

He begins to leave.

"Matthew!" Mary calls out, before she can stop herself.

"Yes?"

She looks down at her feet. "You want to be alone, too, don't you?"

"I do get a little bit sick of the hovering," he admits, "although I love spending time with you and I'm so blessed to have it."

"Good. If you ever need to be alone, just tell me."

"Likewise with me," Matthew replies. "Or just run away from me, it'll take me quite a while to catch up."

In spite of herself, Mary laughs.

* * *

The rain returns the next day. Mary wakes up disappointed that she cannot partake in her ride, but she resigns herself to another day of reading with Matthew and hoping that he has a good day.

In the afternoon, Shrimpie's chauffeur shows up with a shipment of mail that was sent to the post office of the village nearby. Isobel gratefully accepts and sifts through the mail, which takes the form of perfectly normal letters from friends and family, and a large trunk.

On top of it, a letter rests, from a certain Major Hawthorn.

Mary comes into the dining room while Isobel looks through the mail, and notices the trunk right away. "What is that?" she asks.

"It was sent by Matthew's commanding officer," Isobel says. "I think it's the things he left behind when he was injured, although who knows why they took so long to get here."

"The army does seem terribly disorganized," Mary comments, trying to sound blasé. She wants to know what is inside the trunk, to know what he had with him while within the hell of war.

Isobel picks up the letter on top. "Should I open it? I don't want to invade Matthew's privacy, of course, but I also don't want it to... set him off."

"Do it, and tell him it must have gotten torn open on the way if he questions it."

"You want me to lie to him?" Isobel asks incredulously.

Mary's eyes harden. "Lying can be the merciful thing to do sometimes, more gentle than telling the truth. I lied to my family for the last five years about the Pamuk incident and they were blissfully ignorant. Unless the letter might really... cause issues you should give it to him, but you should make sure first."

Isobel nods. "You may be right." She opens the letter very carefully, keeping the envelope intact, and begins to scan it.

_Crawley,_

_Sorry to hear about your injury and that you won't be able to come back to join us. The men have missed you, even Jacobs who got promoted to captain in your place. It's been a rough month since Amiens, we're making advances but we've lost so many men. Of course you got wounded and poor Mason, which we were all sad to hear about, and Jamison and Lewis and Collins were all killed within the last week, and Anderson and Conrad and Andrews and Lowe were all injured and sent back to England. Anderson wasn't hurt too badly, but the rest of them were caught up in a bad shell blast and have long recoveries ahead of them. And yet the rest of us move forward. The war can't be long now, and I pray that we don't have to lose many more men before we beat the Hun into submission. God willing we'll all be home again by this Christmas. Sorry this trunk of your things took so long to get sent out, but here they are, and I figured I should give you an update on how things are going out here. God bless you, Crawley, and I do hope you're doing better now._

_Sincerely, Hawthorn_

Isobel looks up. "This is hard to read, to hear what it is like," she says, "and I'm not sure if we should give it to him."

Mary sighs. "What's in the trunk?"

Isobel lifts the lid of the trunk and carefully takes the contents out. On top, an extra uniform, outwardly cleaned but obviously the victim of mud and worn out from overuse. Isobel takes out the uniform and sets it on the table. Underneath, she sees utensils; a plate, a cup, a fork, a flask, all very damaged, pock marked and dented and dirty. The utensils stacked to the side on the table, underneath is his red mess kit. Isobel's throat constricts as she remembers how handsome and yet how sad her son seemed in the clothes. He looked very dashing in them, yes, but he wore them with such sadness and such resignation that there are only sad memories associated with the outfit. There is ammunition. There is box of writing utensils, the pencils messily shaved down almost to nonexistence, the pen and inkwell dry. Which strikes Isobel as odd since Matthew's letters back home were neither particularly long nor particularly frequent. A stack of letters, mostly in Isobel's hand, a good deal in Lavinia's, and at the bottom, a couple in Mary's. And then, on the bottom of the trunk, there are two books and a pistol. One book is a Bible, the other, a copy of Great Expectations, Reginald's favorite book, with a faded and scrawled message from Reginald in the front cover. Isobel bites her lip painfully as she looks at the items. They seem so insignificant and yet they are vivid reminders of Matthew's time at war.

Matthew's crutches and the creaky floors announce his arrival before he arrives. Mary panics and stuffs the letter back into the envelope while Isobel attempts to quickly reorganize the things taken out of the truck.

"What's this?" he asks, nonchalantly, but there is no denying the curiosity in his voice.

"Your things from the war," Mary says, her tone conveying to Isobel that she knows exactly how to control the situation. "They took a while to get here, but here they are and they came along with a letter from Hawthorn, your commanding officer, I'm assuming?"

Matthew nods, his lips pressed together, and speaks, his voice tight. "Yes."

"Would you like me to read it to you, or would you rather read it alone?" Mary asks.

"If you'd read it to me please," Matthew requests, pulling out a chair next to where Isobel is sitting and carefully lowering himself to sit in it. He sets his crutches against the table and picks up first his uniform, unfolding and refolding it carefully.

Isobel seems surprised at his request to have it read out loud, but says nothing. Mary pretends to open the letter again and begins to read.

Matthew's face remains surprisingly impassive as Mary reads, but there is a grimness to his expression that never really seems to leave his face anymore. His lips downturn slightly at the mention of the injured and wounded men, but otherwise he makes no move, creates no sound. In a way, it's as if he isn't there at all.

When Mary finishes reading the letter, she places it in front of him, on top of the uniform. Matthew moves it decisively to the side. He takes the folded uniform and hands it to Isobel to repack it in the trunk. He does the same with the other items. Isobel doesn't take notice of how his fingers linger over the cold metal of the pistol perhaps a little bit longer than they need to.

"Would you take this up to my room?" Matthew asks, very calmly.

"Are you sure..." Mary begins, but he holds up a hand.

"It's fine. Where else would we put it?"

Mary tries to shrug off the gnawing concern that she can't quite place.

* * *

That night, it is hardly an hour into her time in bed when Mary hears Matthew crying out painfully.

She only hesitates for a minute, ensuring no one else is coming to help him, before opening the connecting door between their rooms and slipping inside. This time, she doesn't hesitate to get onto his bed, to calm him using touch as well as words, to be much closer to him than would be considered proper, but she doesn't care.

"Matthew," she whispers. His name, over and over again. He was never Matthew in the trenches, he was always Crawley. She hopes that using his name will help bring him back to her. He shifts around, but keeps calling out. "Retreat!" he calls, his eyes open but wild. "We can't lose any more of them!"

Mary gets very close to him, holding his arms down so he doesn't hurt himself. "Matthew, Matthew, you're in Scotland, you're in Scotland."

There's something in his eyes that changes, something that Mary can't quite place, when he comes back to her. But the change is there and it is obvious and Mary immediately breathes a sigh of relief when she sees it because it means her Matthew is back.

He still breathes heavily, he still seems frantic, but at least he is there with her.

"Mary..." he whispers, finally.

She smiles. "Yes. It's alright. You're here, with me, not on the battle field."

"I'm sorry..." he says, first trailing off. "I'm sorry," he repeats, more emphatically. "Hawthorn's letter just reminded me of the worst of it all, and it's hard to stomach for me and I can't imagine how hard it might be for you to hear about but..."

"Don't think about me," Mary protests. "I can't even imagine what you went through out there, and I don't mind hearing about it, if it opens up your world even just a little bit to me."

He almost smiles. Almost. He continues saying, "I'm sorry for making you read it, I just... if you were reading it out loud I knew I could stay grounded while hearing about it. Because you have nothing to do with the war, and if I'm looking at you and hearing your voice I know that I'm not there."

"I'm glad I could help you with that then," Mary replies. For a brief second she considers telling him that she had already read the letter, but she decides he doesn't need that on his plate as well.

There is silence between them for a while, and Mary relaxes and allows herself to lay down beside him, companionably, in no way romantically, and they stare at the ceiling and wonder.

Finally, Matthew breaks the silence.

"I'm always going to be like this, aren't I?"

"No, of course not. The shellshock will improve, just you wait. You're already so much better than you were when you just got back, you're not having hallucinations when you're awake, you've been so pleasant so much of the time, you..."

Matthew shakes his head. "That's not what I'm talking about. I mean, it is, and I'm not as confident as you that this can get better, but what I mean is my leg. I'm always going to be crippled."

"Matthew, don't say that!"

"It's true, though, isn't it?"

Mary sighs. "Did anyone say anything?"

"I've wondered for quite a while. I'm the son of a doctor and a nurse, I do know a thing or two about anatomy and I know that while bone heals pretty well, muscles and tendons and ligaments do not. Clarkson told me there was some pretty extensive muscle and tendon damage which I kind of ignored then but... well and then Hawthorn saying that I wouldn't ever be able to come back to the army. Don't get me wrong, I have no desire to go back, but it got me wondering how he knew for sure that I couldn't ever come back. I asked Dr. Warren about it when I saw him last but he's absolutely useless and he wouldn't tell me anything. So I just had to put two and two together, and... I understand why you've kept this from me but I just want to know."

Mary presses her lips together, afraid to look over at him for fear that she'll see his bright blue eyes begging for answers. "The doctors say they don't know how much it will heal, you may only have a slight limp... but yes, they said it won't heal perfectly and will probably continue to trouble a little bit you after it's healed. But likely not that much, mind you. You won't be a cripple, Matthew."

"Just imperfect," he murmurs.

"We're all imperfect, Matthew. It's part of being human."

He sighs, blowing out air frustratedly. "I know, it's just... it's going to be difficult being an earl if I can barely walk. Your father, he spends so much time walking around the the estate. What if I can't manage that? I could manage being a solicitor, since I could get away with sitting at a desk all day. But how can I be an earl?"

"You'll manage," Mary says softly. "Look, I don't know how bad it will be, but I do know this; you'll pull through. You survived the war, and you're home now, and I know you can survive anything after."

Matthew tries to blink back tears as he stares intently on a crack in the ceiling that seems to resemble the cracks in his mind. "You all think I was so good at surviving but maybe I wasn't. Maybe it was just pure dumb luck that I'm still here."

"It's not." Mary's voice is hard, but she must convince him of her words. "There's a reason you survived, there's a reason you're suffering like this, but you survived and we're going to make you better."

"What is better, though? Is it being able to sleep through the night without being woken three times by a nightmare? Is it not snapping at you or Mother whenever you try and help me? Is it... not thinking about the war, not having it cross my mind once, for an entire day. Mary, better is not real. Better is not tangible. And people back here talk about war in just the same way, how it's something that's there but not touching them, never quite touching them. But if they just set foot in a trench and immediately felt the mud underfoot and heard the bombs explode around them... they would realize that war is far more tangible than better ever will be."

"No, better isn't tangible. There's no measure by which we can track your progress, no specific goals to meet. But we'll know. I'll know, you'll know, your mother will know... And for the record, I think you are better than you were."

Matthew doesn't respond for a long time. Finally he whispers, "I wish you were right."


	12. Consideration

The next day dawns bright and sunny, but cold. Mary opens up the curtains and smiles to see the sun, but presses her lips together in disappointment to observe the frost accumulated on the ground. It is nearing the end of October, so it is only natural that the cold should be descending. But Mary misses the warmth, and for a brief second wonder why, of all places, she decided Scotland was the best place for them to go.

"Are you going on your ride today, Mary?" Matthew asks, as he makes his way to the dining room table for breakfast. He doesn't look like he slept at all the night before; Mary left his room after about an hour for fear she would fall asleep there, but obviously Matthew had not fallen asleep.

Mary shakes her head and takes a sip of tea. "It's too cold, I'm afraid. I'm not sure I'll ever get my ride in until the winter is over, it may not warm up again."

He sighs. "Perhaps being here in the winter isn't the best. I've never been to Scotland in the winter, but I've heard tell of the snow here and frankly that much snow must be miserable."

"I don't know, I quite like the snow," Mary says, standing up and looking at the frost covering the bright green grass. More seriously, she turns to Matthew. "But do you want to go back?"

"I..."

"Because if you do, of course we can go back."

Matthew sighs and rubs his injured leg. "I don't know if I can handle going back... I know I'll have to someday, but I still don't feel like going back would be wise at this point."

"Then we'll stay here," Mary says cheerfully. "Whatever is best for you."

"Sometimes I wish you didn't have that mindset."

Mary furrows her brow. "What?"

"The 'it's all about Matthew' mindset, because while I appreciate all that you've done for me here, it's also hard to absorb all the attention. I almost feel like I have to perform, to be better, even when I feel so much worse sometimes. But I want to be better, and part of that is for you, so that all this hard work you've done... it hasn't left you still with a useless shell of a man whose mind is nothing but war and terror."

"Matthew, you can't possibly believe..."

He almost laughs. Almost. "I'm not saying your intentions are that at all. I think you arranged this out of the goodness of your heart, which Mary, I know you have. But I also know that if by the end of this, I'm not back to... 'normal', as they say, you'll believe you haven't done enough when it's absolutely the opposite."

Isobel comes downstairs before Mary can say anything else. She shuts her mouth and turns her attention toward Isobel. "Good morning," she greets, unsatisfied with their conversation.

Isobel smiles and takes a plate and begins to arrange her breakfast. "Good morning. How did you sleep, Matthew?"

He doesn't feel like lying. "Not particularly well."

"You should take one of the sleeping draughts Dr. Warren prescribed you, then."

"I don't like how they make my head feel all fuzzy. I'd rather be able to think and not be groggy."

Isobel sighs. "Was last night because of the nightmares or because of the pain?"

He averts his eyes from her gaze. "Both."

"That makes sense. The onset of cold will often cause injured body parts to ache, and I'm sure you were already in considerable pain considering you haven't been taken the medication prescribed for you."

Matthew's eyes widen. "How did you know that?"

"If you had been, you would have asked me to run into town for a refill long before now. But I checked in your bathroom, and sure enough, the bottle was only half empty. Matthew, that medication is there to help you. Especially once you start putting weight on that leg, you'll need it to make the most of your recovery."

Matthew sighs and takes a bite of his breakfast. "My mind has enough trouble without addling it with drugs. Besides, I've seen too many men get addicted, and I have enough problems without an addiction on top of it."

"That is wise, Matthew, but all the same, I wish you'd at least take something," Isobel says. "Even if you might refuse to admit it, you were injured quite badly and that is exactly what the medication is designed for."

Matthew puts his spoon down and turns dangerously cold glittering eyes toward his mother. "I'm not a child anymore, even if you think I am. You may think you know best, and maybe in some cases you do, but you have no idea what is going on inside my head. And I know that because frankly, sometimes I have no idea. So please stop pretending you do."

He seemed almost like a petulant child, in an almost comical fashion, but Mary and Isobel know better than to laugh.

* * *

He reads all day, but he doesn't read at all. Mary stays in the library with him for hours on end and observes that he only turns the page once or twice in an hour, after startling and realizing that he hasn't turned a page in a while.

It concerns her.

She wants to ask what's on his mind, but she fears it. After all, he says he cannot tell. And she believes him. Matthew has never been a particularly closed off person, but even if he was, she doubts he would lie to her.

She doesn't really read her book, either, instead keeping a careful eye on him. He is deep in thought, but obviously it is not thought about the book.

The clock ticks. Slowly. Maddeningly.

"Would you like to read outside?" she asks him, finally, unable to handle the oppressiveness of the time and silence within the library. "It seems to have warmed up quite a bit."

Matthew looks up from his book, finally, and shrugs. "Why not?" he concedes.

"Excellent. I'll just ask Molesley to arrange us some seating out there, and get our coats. It should be lovely."

She isn't sure what she's doing, but anything, anything at all would help to break up that silence and the cold fear that seems to be rooting itself in her heart. Whatever Matthew is thinking about, it certainly can't be good.

* * *

The clattering of forks and knives against plates, or more specifically, mostly against Isobel's plate, is distracting and irritating. Neither Mary nor Matthew eat very much; Matthew conceded to taking a dose of medication which took away his appetite, and Mary can't even focus on eating when she is so worried.

"I think I may go run a few errands in town tomorrow," Isobel says nonchalantly. Her eyes are trained on Matthew's still full plate. "I arranged it with Shrimpie's chauffeur. Would you like to come with?"

Matthew shakes his head. "I'd just be a burden."

"Nonsense, it would be good for you to get out," Isobel says.

"I'm... not ready yet," he says, his words slow and carefully chosen. "I'm afraid I might have an episode in the middle of town. Not to mention, I'm not looking too good right now."

That is true. Matthew is very pale, paler than his mother has ever seen him, and his hair seems thinner. His body, too, is much thinner, but in a sickly way. Mary misses the more robust solicitor he had been before the war. His eyes, previously so beautiful and vibrant, are dark and sunken. The color is still there, but the life has gone out of them, and it is shockingly noticeable. Isobel had been worried about him looking at himself initially, but after he had taken a glance in the mirror, he had simply remained sullen, which in recent times was really something mild.

Mary bites her lip and tries to keep her eyes away from him. "I think maybe you should just go. I'll stay here."

"You should go if you want to," Matthew says. "I'll be alright alone, and I won't even be alone, the servants will still be here."

"No, I don't really want to go," Mary replies. "I'm not sure if I can show my face anywhere yet."

He sighs. "You should be able to. People should respect you. If that bastard Carlisle didn't..."

"Matthew," Isobel says sternly. She senses that he is about to have a meltdown, and she wishes to stop it in its tracks.

He pulls back and stubbornly cuts up his meat.

Later that evening, Anna and Daisy cannot find one of the knives when they are cleaning the meal up. They say nothing; utensils seemed to disappear and reappear all the time.

* * *

Mary sits at her vanity, observing her face. "Anna, do I look tired? I know it doesn't matter much here, there's no one really to see me, but I feel like I look tired."

"You do a little bit, milady," Anna replies honestly. "Have you been getting much sleep?"

"Not much," Mary says. "I'm afraid Matthew cries out in his sleep quite often, and it wakes me. Sometimes I have to go calm him down. But don't tell his mother that, I don't want her to know."

Anna begins to plait Mary's hair. "Your secret is safe with me. But if you'll excuse my saying so, is it really your responsibility to go do that?"

"No, but it is my wish. He needs it, so desperately. He's struggling and I want to do everything that I can to help. I want to bring him back to who he used to be. Oh, I know he won't ever completely be the same. But..."

Anna understands, or at least she thinks she does. "You loved him."

"I..." Mary is afraid to say the words out loud. "I  _love_  him. Shellshocked or not. But I know he misses the way things used to be, and I know he wants to be more like he was before, and so I'm determined to bring him back to that."

"The poor man, it seems like he's going through so much," Anna observes.

"How is Daisy?" Mary asks. She has been so focused on Matthew, she hasn't spared many thoughts for the recently bereaved cook.

Anna shrugs. "It's odd, really. She's grieving William, of course, but she also seems to be grieving how she treated him. She doesn't feel like she was good enough to him."

"She married a dying man, how much better to him can she get?" Mary asks incredulously.

"She thinks she betrayed him by marrying him, since before he was injured she was planning to break off the engagement since she didn't love him as more than a friend," Anna explains.

Mary stares at herself in the mirror. "That's utterly unreasonable and yet I can understand where she's coming from."

"And how about you? How are you holding up?" Anna asks.

"Just fine, I think. I'm not sure, I haven't had a whole lot of time to think about myself. Which is good, I've almost forgotten that the scandal was published. That was what I came here for. Maybe I haven't been getting enough sleep, but there has been some benefit to being here."

Anna gives a half-smile, but she is obviously not convinced. "Very good, milady."

* * *

He isn't sure why it's such a hard night, but he starts falling early and it doesn't stop and there's no sleep that comes to stop his downward spiral.

Maybe it starts with his leg.

The pain is intense, throbbing and aching snd unyielding, and Matthew can't ignore it, try as he might. He should have taken the pain medication like his mother advised, but he had felt better before going to bed and had stubbornly refused. He regrets it now, but there is little he can do. He could call for someone to get it for him, but he tells himself that would be giving in. Or he could go it himself, but that would involve trying to get out of bed and upright in the dark, and Matthew isn't too confident that would go well.

So he tries his best to divert his mind from the pain.

Unfortunately the only way he can distract himself from the pain of his leg is to focus himself on the pain of his mind.

The last few days have set a spell of hopelessness over him. He knows what the problem is, even if he is loath to acknowledge it.

He can now think about the future.

For the past four years, he has barely given a second thought to the future. Even when proposing to Lavinia, he never expected to get to marry her. He figured, even as he held the ring out for her, that he would die long before a wedding could take place. He was partially wrong, but also very right.

In the trenches, it was rare to hear anyone talk about tomorrow, let alone next month or next year. That suited Matthew; if he could live in the present and not think about the future at all, the stresses of the future were irrelevant.

But now he has to think about the future, and realizing the extent of his healing, or lack thereof, forces him to consider it.

What can he do with his life now? Marriage... he isn't sure he can ever bring himself to marry, to bind some poor women into union with such a mentally and physically broken man. He knows that, as earl, he will be expected to marry. But he can't quite stomach the idea. Could he work any longer? He supposes a solicitor's office could give him privacy if needed, but his focus is certainly not where it needs to be to work the long days as a solicitor. He's never really considered any other job, and he seriously doubts he would be suited to any other job.

Anyway, eventually he'll be the earl. And that will mean work, although work of a different sort than what he's used to. But some of it he won't necessarily be able to do.

Which brings him back to his leg.

He can't imagine the burning pain in the limb ever leaving him, it seems too deeply ingrained in him. And he shudders to think how much worse walking on it will hurt. But he must walk on it again. And he must walk around the estate to visit farms, because to not would be shirking his duties as an earl.

And Matthew is nothing if not a creature of duty.

What will he do if he cannot fulfill his duties?

Perhaps the war isn't completely at fault for his mental condition. Perhaps the war just exacerbated issues and an identity crisis that had been ongoing ever since he opened that letter way back in 1912. He's never been entirely comfortable with the idea of being the earl, really. It is just his duty, and one that he has always been privately quite terrified he cannot fulfill.

It's time to start pretending he's capable of this now, he decides. Maybe he isn't capable at all, but he'll cross that bridge later. At this point, if he doesn't believe that he can fulfill his duty, no one else will.

And it will start with his leg.

If he's actually going to manage to sleep, he really does need the medication.

He sits up, managing to pull himself into an upright position with feet off the edge of the bed. The pain isn't too much worse. He reaches for the crutches propped by his bed and pauses a minute, unsure of how to accomplish his goal. Eventually, he decides putting his weight on his good leg while he tries to get the crutches under his arms is the best way to go. He manages to stand up, but ends up putting a little bit of weight on his injured leg to get his balance, and it is all he can do to keep from screaming. He can't scream though. If he screams, Mary will come in and she will know his weakness.

She pretty much knows his many weaknesses already... There is really not pretending with Mary.

And yet, Matthew still has this little bit of pride left to uphold.

He stumbles in the dark to his bathroom, somehow staying upright. Eventually he finds the bathroom light, turns it on, and finds the medication. It is a dark green bottle and frankly, Matthew thinks it's more alcohol than anything else. But anything right now is helpful for the searing pain that was just exacerbated by his trip.

He takes a swig of the unfortunate tasting medicine, makes sure that is all he has to take for one dose, and begins to make the trip back to his bed.

He manages to get back in bed without much trouble, but he is exhausted.

And he still cannot sleep.

He can feel hot tears crawling down his face. The tears come out of utter frustration, of sadness, of exhaustion, of something Matthew can't even understand.

The pain in his leg may have lessened, he can't say for sure. The pain in his heart, however... that's something that won't go away at all.

He can't take his mind off the future, now that he knows there is one.

The future is terrifying.

But as his thoughts spiral further, he has an idea.

Perhaps the future won't be quite so terrifying after all.


	13. Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about this chapter. It took me months to write, and it may be very hard to read. Consider that your warning. ...don't hate me, I promise everything will work out in the end.

It is unseasonably warm for late October, and Mary wakes up happily to see that it is warm enough for her to take a ride through the beautiful Scottish countryside.

She dresses in her riding clothes, untouched since they came to Scotland, and heads downstairs for breakfast, where Matthew and Isobel are waiting. Matthew is cleanly shaven, dressed, and looks much more alive than he has since he came back from the front. He is eating, actually, eating a lot of his breakfast.

"Good morning Mary," he says cheerfully. It is such a departure from the sullen, morose Matthew that she has known for the past few months, and it is hard for Mary to respond, she is so taken aback.

Finally, she manages to stammer out, "Good morning... You're looking cheerful."

He shrugs. "It's nice out today. Reminds me that there is beauty in this world still."

She tries to force a smile. It's nice to see him finally happy, but there's something not quite right about it. She knows Matthew can be moody, but he doesn't have these kinds of drastic mood swings literally overnight.

"I'm going into the village today," Isobel reminds the table. "Is there anything either of you need?"

"I do have a couple letters to send, if you'd be willing to drop them off," Mary says. "I'm going for a ride this morning, it seems a shame to waste such a lovely day."

"Matthew, will you be alright without either of us here?" Isobel asks.

He rolls his eyes. "I did manage to survive four years in the trenches, I think I'll be fine alone in a lovely house for a few hours."

Mary tries to smile at his humor, but there's something missing from him, something she can't quite put her finger on, and it bothers her more than she can say.

"Is there anything you'd like me to pick up while I'm in town, Matthew?" Isobel asks. She can sense that there's something off too, maybe just subconsciously, but the hint of concern is present in her voice.

"I have everything I need," Matthew replies.

Mary isn't sure what to make of that.

Isobel smiles tightly. "Well, then. Shrimpie's chauffeur should be here any minute now, if you'll excuse me, I should go gather my things."

When Mary and Matthew are left alone in the dining room, Mary finally works up the courage to say something. "Has anything happened? Did you get a letter or read a newspaper article or anything?"

"Why?" he asks, his eyes wide and unsuspicious.

"You're just so... much more alive than you have been the past few months. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted that you seem so happy, it's just... quite the change from what you were before."

He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's just... I realized something last night. And it cheered me up."

Mary raises an eyebrow. "Care to share?"

"Not particularly. I feel like my whole life is observed and scrutinized constantly now, it's nice to have something to myself."

Mary isn't totally reassured, but she lets it slide. "I won't be too long on my ride."

"Don't worry. Take as long as you like. It's a lovely day today," he says, almost absentmindedly.

She nods slowly, worriedly. "Yes it is..."

* * *

 

Mary realizes just a few minutes into her ride that it would be much more pleasant had Matthew not been acting so odd that morning. She is preoccupied with thoughts of him instead of concentrating on the beauty around her. She digs her heels further into the horse, willing it to go faster, as if going faster will take her away from her worries. But her worries are a part of her, and they are not left behind at the house.

The trunk of his military things is in his room, unlocked, easily accessible. He is thankful for this. It makes things much easier.

He manages, somehow, to drag a straight-backed chair across the room so he can sit next to it. He opens the trunk and casts out the uniforms sitting on the top.

There it is; his pistol. Dirty and beat up and marked and an object that has saved his life many a time. Maybe not today.

She is about half an hour into her ride when she realizes that this is not going to be pleasant. There is too much occupying her mind, and the idea of Matthew being alone at the house terrifies her slightly. Or a lot.

She calls out to the groom, "Let's turn back."

"Milady, we've only just begun," he says.

Mary nods. "I know. But I need to get back as soon as possible. There's something I forgot."

* * *

 

Matthew fingers the gun carefully, opening its chambers to find one bullet left. One perfect little bullet that his gun did not fire when he was injured. One perfect little bullet from a gun that has ended dozens of lives.

One perfect little bullet left.

One more life to end.

* * *

 

The horse gallops at a quick pace, but it is not nearly quick enough for Mary. She digs her heels into the horse's sides and leans forward, willing it to go faster. As if the horse can hear her frantically beating heart and her flying thoughts.

The horse goes, but not quickly enough.

Time seems too slow.

* * *

 

There are other ways, he knows. There is a rope in his mess kit, but he doubts he could reach the ceiling. Enough morphine would gently put him to sleep, but not enough would simply fail him. He has the knife he took from the dinner table, but that is a messy end.

No, this is the best way. He has seen it many times in the trenches. All it takes is one perfect little bullet.

* * *

 

She hops off the horse before it even has a chance to slow down, so determined is she to get to the house. But the stables are not nearby, and her fastest running pace is not all that fast. The run up the hill to the house seems interminable, and there is not enough air in her lungs to sustain her. Yet, she makes it. Exhausted and in pain, but she makes it to the entrance.

She doesn't take a break to breathe.

* * *

 

It is better this way, he thinks darkly. Mary and his mother will be devastated for a little while, but then they can go back to living their lives. They are better off without him burdening them. And he will be happier this way. This kind of life, with both the injury and the shellshock, has been a sort of living hell where the trenches almost seem a pleasant memory. Except when they are an all-consuming memory.

He can't live like this anymore, can't live like this forever.

He has one perfect little bullet.

His gun is clean and ready.

* * *

 

Mary runs up the stairs at a speed she doesn't know she is capable of. She skids to a halt in front of his bedroom door, then knocks.

* * *

Matthew freezes. Who is it? Does he reply? Does he just get it over with now? They will know what he's done no matter what.

He freezes too long to get a chance to decide

* * *

 

The few seconds of silence after her knock are too much for Mary. She puts her hand on the doorknob and throws open the door.

"Matthew!" she screams, seeing what is in his hand. Seeing how it is positioned. Knowing immediately what is going on.

The gun clatters to the floor.

Mary rushes over to him, kicking the gun across the room and as far away from him as possible. "Matthew, what are you doing?! No, no no, stop!" She screams, but her voice seems to scratch across the words.

She knows exactly what he is doing.

He is at a loss for words. He is not at a loss for tears, however, and he breaks down, blubbing, sobbing unintelligibly, muttering something, and unable to control himself. "I...I..."

Her arms come around him, holding him tightly. "Shh. Shh. You don't need to tell me, just... calm down."

"I'm so sorry, Mary," he murmurs roughly, finally. Her arms are around his neck, and he leans back into the chair, into her.

There is silence.

Mary can't say anything in response. There is nothing she can say. She doesn't know how to process what just happened, what almost happened.

If she hadn't decided to come back...

She shudders to think of it, and a fresh wave of anger rolls over her. How could he ever consider doing this to her?

She looks down at him, rubs his shoulders, comforts him. He is a mess, sobbing and blubbing and he seems so fragile, so broken.

She feels guilty about being angry with him when he is so utterly broken.

She still is angry, furious even, that he would try to take his own life. But she cannot take that out on him. That will not help him in any way.

"Matthew," she whispers finally, trying to sound as gentle as possible, "let's get you in bed."

He seems so drained by what just happened, and so uncomfortable sitting there by his trunk of war things, and exhausted by life in general, that there is no other reasonable way to do things.

It takes a minute, but he nods. She hands him his crutches and helps him get up from the chair, standing behind him as he moves slowly from the chair to the bed. He gets up on the bed and lays down, and Mary brings the covers over him and places a hand on his forehead comfortingly. "Are you alright?" she asks.

It's a silly question. Obviously he isn't.

"No," he answers truthfully, between sniffles.

"Can you talk about it?" she asks.

He presses his lips together, and shakes his head. "Not... yet," he manages to make out.

"Do you need any pain medicine?" she asks.

He nods mutely.

"Stay there," she says. She knows he wouldn't be able to do anything without her hearing from the bathroom, but she still would rather not have him try. He seems too distraught to try anything at all at the moment though.

She carefully doses out a cup of pain medication; she doesn't want to give him any more because she has heard of overdose deaths of pain medication, and she doesn't quite yet trust Matthew not to try anything like that.

Mary reenters the room and sees him still lying in bed, tears silently streaming down his face. He looks so tired and so small in bed.

"Here," she says, handing him the small cup.

He drinks it and tries to smile. "Thank you," he whispers.

"We need to talk about it, you know," Mary says, softly. "And I have to tell Isobel."

He shakes his head frantically. "No, don't tell Mother!"

"She has to know," Mary says.

"She'll send me to one of those places," he says, his eyes wide with fear.

Mary shakes her head. "Trust me, she won't. I promise. We won't tell Dr. Warren, I can tell you that."

He casts his eyes down but nods in understanding.

"Do you want to sleep now? And then we'll talk when your mother gets back."

"Alright," he rasps. He closes his eyes and quickly falls asleep, probably because of his drowsiness from the medicine. Mary can't imagine him sleeping otherwise.

Once she is certain he is asleep, Mary rings the bell. Anna is the one to come up.

"Anna, please stay in here while he sleeps. I can't leave him alone," she says, and Anna mercifully asks no questions. Mary begins to leave, but as she does, she picks up the gun. Inspecting it, there is one bullet in it. She takes the bullet out and places it in her pocket. Now it can't hurt Matthew.

She enters her own room. She lays down on her bed and stuffs her face into a pillow, beginning to sob.

She is so angry, so frustrated, so conflicted… and most of all, so desperately sad. She tries to assure herself that everything is alright, that the worst didn't happen. But that hardly consoles her.

This is the worst day.

* * *


	14. Repercussions

Mary doesn't get up for about an hour. She feels terrible for leaving Anna to watch Matthew, especially without explanation, but she can't will herself to get up for an hour. Her mind runs through all the possibilities of what could have happened, and why Matthew could have possibly wanted this.

She knows he has been haunted by the war, but she didn't realize quite how badly he wanted it to end.

Does he still want it to end?

His cryptic and indistinguishable sobs told her very little.

Can she trust him to be alone again?

How did she not manage to realize the extent of the damage? How did she not see this coming? She was stupid, so stupid, to leave him alone. Especially after knowing that something wasn't right that morning.

Can this damage ever be mended?

…Could she have done anything else?

Her mind runs through so many thoughts, so many fears, so many scenarios, so many regrets, and it is overwhelming, so overwhelming that eventually she just numbs herself and sobs further into the pillow until she has no more tears to cry.

She wonders if Matthew tried to numb himself in the same way before pulling out the gun.

Shaking off the numbness, she forces herself to roll over and then to stand up. She will face this, and so will Matthew, and they all will face it together.

Nothing happened, she tells herself. Matthew is still alive and he didn't manage to harm himself at all.

But then again, everything happened. And everything changes.

Now, healing Matthew isn't just a matter of improving his future. It's a matter of life or death.

* * *

Isobel comes home to an eerie quiet.

When she doesn't find Matthew or Mary downstairs, she quickly ascends the steps upstairs. Panic grips her heart, for no discernible reason.

She knocks on Matthew's door.

Mary hears the knock, and finally leaves her room. "Isobel," she says softly, standing half in the doorway. "Isobel, we need to talk." She tries to stay composed, but it is difficult, so difficult, because what she has to tell Isobel is so difficult to say.

"What is it?" Isobel asks.

Mary leads the older woman into her room and motions to a chair. "Sit down," she says. It is a command, but a gentle one.

Isobel normally would protest, but the grave look on Mary's face tells her that protesting isn't wise. "Mary... what's happened?" Her heart seems to beat out of her chest.

"I turned back about half an hour into my ride, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. So I came back... and I found Matthew... with a gun to his head."

"Oh God," Isobel says.

"I found him in time..." Mary continues, placing a hand on Isobel's shoulder, trying to hide her own shaking. "I put him to bed, and Anna's watching him right now just in case."

Isobel blinks back tears. "He tried to take his life?"

Mary presses her lips together and looks away. "Yes."

Suddenly so grateful she is sitting down, Isobel leans back in the chair, suddenly exhausted. There is nothing she can do but cry.

Mary doesn't know how to deal with the strong, seemingly imperturbable Isobel crying, but then again, Mary knows that she would be sobbing too if she had any tears left to cry.

"Did he... did he say why?" Isobel looks up, finally, her eyes red-rimmed and her mouth in a shaky tight line.

"No," Mary whispers. "I didn't want to talk to him about it right when it happened, I was so scared, and it probably would have made things worse. So I put him to bed, gave him a dose of the pain medicine that makes him sleep, and asked Anna to watch over him. And I took this," she reaches behind Isobel to grab the gun sitting on top of the bureau, "away from him."

Isobel barely holds back another cry of grief.

"There was one bullet in there, I think that was all he had. I took it out and put it somewhere completely different. That way he can't ever use it to harm himself. But I don't think we should leave him alone at all, at least until we can be certain he won't try anything. There are so many things he could..."

"Mary," Isobel sniffles. She holds a hand up. "I appreciate all you've done for Matthew, and... I think you saved his life today. But please… let me process this without worrying about the future for a second."

Mary kneels on the floor next to Isobel and takes her hand. "The future is all we have. The present is so, so hard, and it's unbearable to think about the past because I only wonder if there was something more we could have done."

Isobel presses her lips together in an attempt to keep from crying anymore. She strokes Mary's hair gently. "Don't blame this on yourself. I won't blame it on myself. We can't do that."

"But really, what do you think?"

"You couldn't have done anything more," Isobel says. "You've done so much."  
"But if it wasn't enough, then it wouldn't really matter."

"It was enough, though. He's alive. That's what matters."

* * *

When Matthew wakes up, his mother is sitting by the side of his bed. He lifts his eyes up and Mary is leaning on the wall across from his bed, looking at him with sad eyes. He takes another look at his mother, and sees her eyes are red and teary.

He's taken pain medication, he can tell. The strong stuff. There's no other explanation for how fuzzy his head feels.

Why is his mother so distressed? Why is Mary so sad?

He glances across the room and sees the contents of his army trunk spilled out on the floor.

Then he remembers.

"Oh, Mother..." he whispers weakly. "I'm so, so sorry."

Isobel finally forces herself to look him in the eye. "Can you explain it to me, Matthew?"

He tries. He really does. There are so many answers he can give, and they all try to come out of his brain in a big jumble. And none of them come out. His mouth works, but silently. After a minute, he shakes his head. "Not... not now," he manages to say.

"Are you inclined to try again?" Isobel says.

"No..." Matthew says, although he sounds a little bit hesitant. "It would be devastating for you."

Isobel narrows her eyes. "Matthew..."

"He won't," Mary says confidently. She stands up straight and walks toward his bed, taking his hand in hers. "He won't," she repeats.

He believes her.

His mother is angry, he can tell. She is angry out of love, but she still is angry. She is furious with him. He can see it in the furrow of her brow and the set of her mouth. "How could you ever..." she begins, her voice raising, but she does not go on. She breaks down and sobs, perhaps even harder than she did when Matthew's father died. It is disconcerting to see her like this, and before he knows what he is doing, he is sobbing too.

He reaches up and puts a hand on her forearm. "Mother, I'm so... I... I don't know, I can't begin to explain..." There are just no words. They seem to have escaped him entirely.

But one thought looms large.

And he can find the words to ask.

"Are you going to send me to an asylum?" he asks. His voice comes close to betraying the terror of the thought.

Isobel looks at him, uncomprehending. "Oh, Matthew, no, of course not."

"They said I needed to go there because I'm a danger to myself and others. And I guess I am a danger to myself," he says, almost reciting what he has been told.

Mary shakes her head. "You won't be. And we'll stay with you until you're free of any sort of compulsion to..."

"To kill myself?" Matthew says bluntly. "It's alright, no need to pretend like that wasn't what I was trying to do."

"Matthew, please..." Isobel says, her voice shaking. "Please don't be so blasé about it. You'd think after all the years of war you'd understand the value of life..."

His eyes flash coldly, and Mary immediately grips his hand tighter, as if to try and prevent the inevitable anger emanating from Matthew

"Don't you dare tell me what I should understand now," he growls. "There was no value of human life out there. Maybe that rubbed off on me. I don't know. I'm trying to understand the value..." he begins to melt, to break down, and tears begin to wet his cheeks. "I'm just so scared of this life ahead, Mother. For a bleak moment there... it didn't seem worth it."

"Do you realize why it's worth it now?" Isobel asks.

Matthew looks up at her, his bright eyes wide. But he can't lie to her and say yes. So he simply lets his head hang again.

Isobel sighs heavily. "Oh my darling boy, you must..."

"Isobel," Mary whispers. "Please don't lecture him now." She crouches down next to the bed so that she can be on his eye level. "I'm going to show you why it's worth it, alright? Do you trust me?"

"It's so hard to..."

"Do you trust me?" Mary interrupts, more forcefully.

He swallows, and looks up at her with something that vaguely looks like love in his eyes. "Yes."

"It's going to be worth it," she says. "And someday there will come a time when you'll go to bed one evening and you'll realize the war hasn't crossed your mind all day. Some night, some week of nights where no nightmares haunt you. It's hard now, and I can hardly imagine what you're feeling, but please, trust me, and know that there will come a day like that, and you just have to live to see it through."

He stares at the covers. "How can you have so much hope?"

"Because otherwise I'd be entirely empty."

* * *

Anna comes upstairs with a meal for Matthew on a tray, and she stays in the room while Mary and Isobel step outside.

"Someone needs to be with him at all times for now," Mary says. "Not to invade his privacy, just to make sure that... he doesn't try again."

"Yes. Well, I suppose I can move my bed into..."

Mary holds up a hand. "That isn't necessary. There's a connecting door between mine and Matthew's rooms. I'll leave it open. I'm a light sleeper, and Matthew can't get out of bed quietly right now."

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that," Isobel says.

"And why not?" Mary demands.

"It wouldn't be proper. Matthew needs stability and normalcy, which means readjusting to the way things are done. And if any sort of thing got out… " The reply is quiet, but Mary understands the meaning right away.

"And why would you believe I would do anything?"

Isobel's eyes flare at Mary. "Think about why you've come here. That scandal you're escaping. Is it not reasonable for me to have doubts?"

Isobel's words hit Mary like a punch in the gut.

"But..." Mary stumbles backward. "You said you believed it wasn't my fault."

"Perhaps, but I still have my doubts. Mary, you must understand..."

Mary shakes her head. "I thought... I thought I could escape from that here. That there could at least be one place in the world where my reputation wouldn't be soiled, where I wouldn't be subject to comments like this!" She is shaking, but she steadies herself. I deserve this, she reminds herself. I deserve this. But Matthew does not.

Isobel glances at Mary with sad eyes. "Mary, please listen..."

"Oh, I understand exactly what you're saying. Now you might want to get back to Matthew," Mary says, walking toward the stairs. She hesitates, and turns. "For the record, I've slept in Matthew's room most nights we've been here. The walls are thin, and I hear him scream otherwise, when he has nightmares. I spend a good part of many nights in his room. But I have never once touched him, and I would never dream of taking advantage of him in this state. I know how fragile he is, and I remember that night where Pamuk..." tears begin to escape from her eyes, but she chokes them back. "I understand your hesitation. And I deserve it. But Matthew does not. And I firmly believe he sleeps better with me at his side."

She turns and walks down the stairs.

* * *

That evening, everyone in the house is an emotional mess.

Mary fumes at what Isobel has said to her, after the shock has dissipated. Perhaps this is how Isobel deals with her own grief, she reasons, and maybe this is just her attempt to exert her need for control. But Mary cannot forgive, not yet. Isobel can deal with her grief, but it isn't fair for her to hurt others in the process, Mary reasons. So her anger is justified, but that is not what she wants to feel. Her emotions, however, do not cooperate.

Isobel tries to ask Matthew about what happened one more time, before quickly realizing that any attempts to get a full understand of the situation are futile, at least at the moment. She spends the evening by his bed, pulling him into her arms, and whispering how much she loves him and needs him into his ear.

This in turn makes Matthew even more emotional than he was previously. He apologizes once every few minutes for causing her the distress, and tries to believe Isobel when she tells him how important he is to her. He cries tears that he didn't think were left in him.

For a while, there is silence.

Silence, for Matthew, for the past few months, has been unnerving. Silence is so different from what he has known for the past four years. He doesn't know how to handle it anymore.

But for the first time since he arrived back home, silence is comforting for him.

It is a small improvement. He barely notices. Yet it is there.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

"I heard you and Mary arguing earlier. What was it about?" he asks.

Isobel sighs. "We decided you need someone with you during the night... not that we don't trust you..."

"But you don't trust me," Matthew fills in quietly. "I understand."

"Mary offered to leave the door between your rooms open, but I told her I felt that was improper. She challenged me on why, and I confessed the whole situation with Pamuk gave me pause."

"Oh Mother," Matthew says, shaking his head.

"I know, it's something that I should have been sensitive to. And I certainly used the wrong words, making her feel as if my fear was more about her doing something than it was about your reputation and return to normalcy. Bringing that up made her angry, and so she shouted at me and left." Isobel looks her son in the eyes. "She told me that she has come in here many times at night, and even slept in here occasionally?"

Matthew looks away from his mother's gaze. "I don't know if she's slept in here, she's always gone when I wake up, but... yes, she has come into here several times. But nothing untoward went on, Mother. I'm sure she's told you that and I can tell you that in full honesty. I don't think she's even touched me, nor I her."

"And you're comfortable with this?"

Matthew nods. "It has helped me. So very much. And I know that the Pamuk incident says nothing of her character, but rather indicates a vulnerability she pretends not to possess."

"You may be right," Isobel replies softly. "I'll let Mary keep the door open, if both of you are comfortable with that."

"We are," he says. "Mother…"

Isobel pats his hand. "Yes?"

"Please… if you can, let her know that you've realized what you said was wrong. If I know her, it probably made her feel hurt and inadequate, and she could never be inadequate. Not to me."

* * *

Isobel tiptoes downstairs to find Mary, curled up in a ball on the sofa, staring at the window.

"Mary…" she starts softly.

"Is someone with Matthew?" Mary asks first, instinctively.

Isobel nods and takes a seat across from her. "Yes, Molesley is getting him ready for bed."

"Good," she says, returning to staring out the window.

Isobel frowns, words not quite coming to her. "Mary, I'm… I'm sorry about what I said. I had so much grief towards what had just happened and I guess I lashed out, which you did not deserve."

"Oh, I deserve all that and more, after what I did to bring shame on my family. But I won't deny that it hurt."

"Especially on a day like today," Isobel adds. She sighs, willing Mary to look at her. To her surprise, Mary's eyes meet hers. "A mother wants to protect her child, especially when he is… the way he is. And I am an old woman who has grown up in a world that has a certain code of conduct. But I can see you have nothing but good intentions for him, and in that case, your presence, if it helps him, is far more important than following the letter of a moral law."

Mary blinked, silent for a few moments. "You said you didn't condemn me for the Pamuk scandal."

"And I don't. In a moment of grief, and anger, it was all I had to use and all the reason I… Oh, Mary, does it matter? I was wrong, and no reason will fully explain it. Will you forgive that?"

Her eyes were cold, but slowly she uncurled herself from her position and nodded. "I think we've had enough grief today."

Isobel gave a tearful smile in return. "I agree. What do you say we go to bed? And of course, you can keep the door open. Or sleep by his side. It's improper, but it's so kind of you. To help him like that."

"It's the least I can do. I only hope it can be enough."

* * *


	15. Opening

Mary tries not to appear like she is making a beeline for Matthew's room, but as soon as she is certain that Isobel has gone to bed, she comes into his bedroom, her duvet wrapped around her shoulders.

"You're eager tonight," Matthew jokes, and while it isn't particularly funny, it makes Mary's heart soar to hear him joke even a little.

"I think you need me tonight," Mary says. "And... I need you. Or else I might have nightmares that you actually went through with it."

Matthew's face falls. "I'm so..."

"You don't need to apologize, not to me. I know you feel awful about it now that you realize what it would do to us." She frowns, sitting on the bed next to him. "I don't need an apology, but someday I would like an explanation."

"Someday," Matthew confirms. "Not now. But I do want to talk."

"About what?"

He sits up further in the bed. "Anything but what happened today. I'm not tired and I dread to think what nightmares are going to come to me if I close my eyes. I just want to talk about something other than the war, something other than my issues." He smiles sheepishly. "Remind me of all there is to live for."

Mary shakes her head. "You've put me on the spot."

"Just... anything, really."

She stares at him for a second, then shakes her head, smiling. "This isn't anything, really, just being in Scotland reminded me… we used to come up to Shrimpie's every year. Every September, we'd all go up to Duneagle. I enjoyed it for a long time. Their oldest son, James, was a year or two younger than me and Annabelle was about Sybil's age. James and Annabelle and the three of us had a lot of fun together. We would run all over the gardens, or even around the countryside as we got a little older. But then we got too old to have fun, and so we'd sit around and try and make conversation, and talk about how peculiar little Rose was, because she is about ten years my junior, and… then Duneagle just wasn't quite the same."

"Are you ever too old to have fun?" Matthew asks, teasingly.

"According to propriety," Mary shoots back.

He shrugs. "Since when did I pay attention to propriety?"

His humor is forced, Mary can tell. He's trying to make light of what happened earlier, to ease her mind and perhaps to ease his. But she's so grateful that he's trying. So she laughs for him, and the room feels just a little lighter.

"I do love Scotland, though. Especially this time of year. It's so beautiful." Mary continues.

"I've never been here before…" Matthew says. "Really, I haven't done a lot of traveling in my life. Mother and I always talked about how we wanted to spend our summers exploring Europe or riding around Africa on elephants or even going over to America, but it never came to fruition. I think we got too stuck in a rut of our work and our lives being simple and uninterrupted. And we figured we'd better use our money for other things. Little did we know that in the future money would not be an issue at all. But I fear we've missed our chance."

Mary frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"I wouldn't be much fun to travel with, not anymore, having to drag this bad leg around everywhere. It would just be unnecessarily difficult."

Mary frowns. "Matthew, you don't know…"

"Did you know the only time I ever left this island was to go to France? That's the extent of the traveling I've done and I can't say I would recommend it," he says sharply.

"Oh, Matthew…" she whispers under her breath.

He presses his lips together and looks away. "I need to stop thinking about it."

"Maybe you just need to process it, instead of avoiding it."

He turns to her sharply. "Trying to process it didn't go very well, considering it led me to put a gun to my head."

Mary has no reply.

She allows the silence to linger, unsure of how to respond to him. His words make tears that she doesn't know she still has well up in her eyes, but she does not shed them. She must be strong. For him. She must not show how much his troubles are hurting her. That would not be fair to him.

"I'm sorry Mary, it's just…" he begins.

She lies down next to him, close, so close.

"I haven't been dealing with any of this well at all," he says. "I've been stubborn about hiding it, I've tried to deal with it on my own, because I hate being this vulnerable. I feel so goddamn fragile all the time, and it's so difficult. Everything, everything in my head was telling me I'd be better off dead. Because of all the demons and all the pain and everything… it just seemed like too much and that was the only way out. In a way, it still seems like the only way out. But if I have any good qualities, it's that I'm not particularly selfish. I'm a little selfish, all humans are, but not enough to make you and Mother go through that. When you came into my room, when I saw your face when you saw the gun… I realized what I was doing to you. And I can't do it to you and Mother. And I'm… I'm beginning to realize that isn't the only way out. It's slow, Mary, and I'm going to need your help. But you saved my life today. And for that, I'm so very grateful to you."

"I don't know how, but I somehow just… knew that I needed to come back here. And I'm so grateful I did. I don't know what I would have done if you had gone through with it."

He shakes his head. "I'm so sorry for making you… go through that."

"I'm not sure I've quite forgiven you for that."

"That's fair."

Mary smiles slightly. She realizes her hand is touching his. "I told your mother that when I come in here with you, we don't so much as touch. But I don't think that's entirely true."

"I told her the same lie," Matthew replies. "I had forgotten at the time how lovely your hand feels in mine."

She moves even closer to him, so that their heads are touching. "I think I know a little bit of how you felt today," she says softly.

"Really?"

"Yes. After Pamuk… assaulted me." The word feels strange coming off of her tongue, but it also helps her. Pamuk was not her fault, she tells herself, and she feels better about it than she has in years. "I didn't see how my life would go on, especially if the scandal got out. I felt awful, so guilty, and the secret was just eating at me. It got easier, if only slightly. I forgot the pain, I forgot the shock of having a dead man on top of me, but… for a few months, I felt so guilty that I could hardly eat. I considered drowning myself in the lake or throwing myself in front of the train so I would never have to see the scandal come out. Of course, I read too many novels and fancied myself like the heroines of them, but it was still a very dark time for me. But little by little, it got better. Life seemed to have more meaning, the guilt faded, and every day that went by without publication left me a little more relieved. And you were there. You helped me heal, even if you didn't know it. Pursuing a friendship and later a relationship with you made me feel better, purer, because you were just so good, and you seemed to radiate purity."

"Were so good…" he mutters under his breath.

"Are so good," Mary corrects. "You are still a good man, one of the best I know, and whether you realize or not, you have helped me heal. Being with you made me happy, made me forget, and made me feel like a good person too. And so I came out of that dark time with your help. Now my scandal is out there, but you've helped me heal again. And I'm trying to do the same for you, and I hope I succeed. But more importantly, I hope you heal."

"How could I refuse such an eloquent speech?" He asks. His tone is humorous, but his eyes are welling up.

Mary smiles. "I rarely make eloquent speeches, so consider yourself special."

"You're so important to me," he says. "I don't know what I'd do without you. I certainly know I wouldn't be here today."

She smiles and leans over him, stroking a few stray hairs away from his face. It is an intimate gesture, but neither of them feel that it is wrong. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad too. I'm not sure how I would have managed under any other circumstances."

Mary nods. "Everything worked out the way it should have, I think."

He is silent for a few moments. "Do you ever wonder what it would have been like? If we had married before the war like we were planning to?" he asks, staring at the ceiling.

She settles back down beside him. "I do. I guess I would have told you about Pamuk. I didn't feel it was right to go into a marriage with that secret under me."

"And I can't tell you how I would have responded. I was an awfully moralistic prig back then, I might not have been so forgiving."

"But you're past it now?"

Matthew turns his head to look at her, his blue eyes, visible even in the darkness, holding hers. "War has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't. And of course this matters, but not in the way you think it does. It matters because you were young and he took advantage of you, and you lived with this burden alone for so long, and I hate Pamuk for that. The very fact that it happened might have bothered me back then, but the fact that you were assaulted by him bothers me a great deal more."

Mary stares at him and sees the deep love in his eyes. "You're so good, you know. I wish I could have the character, the morals, the strength, the judgment that you have."

"Maybe I had those before. But I feel as if the war has turned me into a monster," he whispers.

"Why do you feel that way?"

He purses his lips, blows out frustratedly, and looks away. "I hit Lavinia, for one. That was awful of me, and I know you'll say I didn't mean it and of course I didn't mean to do that  _to_  Lavinia, but that doesn't mean I didn't mean to do it. I was planning to hit that German. And that violence that I had to learn still seems to be a part of me. I almost did the same thing to Mother, as well. I thought she was someone else, and I tried to fight her. And then with Dr. Warren… it was a good thing I wasn't able to get to him or I might have hurt him too. And I wish it wasn't that way, but here we are, and I fear that I may never be able to let go of the violent instinct. And then… it almost led me to hurting myself."

Mary murmurs his name and rubs the top of his hand with her thumb.

"I'm a monster, Mary. To everyone around me. Even to myself. Which was why, I think… part of what today happened."

Mary shakes her head. "You're not, though. Not really. The war has made you sick, but you can and you will recover from this, and there will be a day where you won't feel like a monster anymore."

"I'm just so scared sometimes…" he whispers. "I'm not always under my own control. Sometimes I do things and I'm not even thinking, just working on instinct. That worked in the trenches but my instincts aren't right for here. Part of me is terrified to go back there, but part of me feels like I would be better back in France. It would be awful, but it would feel right."

"Didn't it take you a while to adjust to France when you first got there? I know you weren't a natural soldier."

He nods. "It was hard, for the first few months. I barely slept. Just like I can barely sleep now because it's too quiet here."

"So you had an adjustment period there. You're having an adjustment period back here. And you'll get there, I know you will. You're never going to have to go back, Matthew."

"That's right. Because I'm too crippled to go back," he murmurs, under his breath.

"The war is coming to a close Matthew, you will not have to go back in any capacity."

He groans. "The war has been coming to a close for four years, I'll believe it when I see it."

"You'll see it soon!" Mary says adamantly. "I know you haven't been reading the papers, and that may be better, but your mother and I have been, and it's so close to the end. Turkey's pretty much out of it, morale in Germany is lower than ever, and with the Americans coming…"

Matthew stops her. "So what if it ends? What will be left? Broken countries full of broken people unhappy with the result of an utterly pointless war."

"It will be over. The destruction will end. And then we can rebuild. And ensure it never happens again," she says.

He frowns. "Rebuilding isn't as easy as you seem to think it is."

"Perhaps it won't be as hard as you seem to think it is."

He has no reply.

Finally, Mary brings up the question that has been weighing on her mind for a long time. "What would it have been like, if we married then? If you had gotten past the Pamuk incident."

"I would have hated myself, for tying you down to me. But not much in the war would have changed…"

"Matthew…?" She is concerned by his sudden shift of tone.

He closes his eyes. "In the trenches, Mary, it was you. It was you who I thought of to get me through. And that probably didn't help my mental state because it threw on guilt that I was thinking of you rather than Lavinia, but I couldn't help it. It was you I thought of, every time. It was your little dog that got me through."

She feels a pang of deep love for him. "Really?"

"That thing never left my pocket."

She grins, although it is slightly tearful. "Do you still have it?"

He frowns. "No. They lost it when they took me off the battlefield, I think. I've been quite lost without it, to be honest. I'll put my hand in my pocket, to touch it, to reassure me, and it won't be there."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry for losing it," Matthew insists. "I promised I'd bring it back without a scratch, and here I am, without the dog and with many scratches."

She wipes the few tears that are escaping away. "That doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're here and safe and alive."

Matthew stares at the ceiling, pretending not to see her tears. "If we had been married, I still would have been here. Shellshocked, injured, a total mess after the war. And I'd still have you here by my side. But I think you wouldn't have had to argue with my mother to be here by my side. And I'd be able to…"

"To what?"

He blushes furiously. "To kiss you…" he murmurs.

"You've thought about that?"

His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. "The last time we kissed was when we were up in London for the Season. The night after Sybil's ball, we went to dinner, just you at me, at a very nice hotel restaurant. It wasn't a place I would have normally gone, but I splurged for you. I was certain you were going to accept my proposal that night. You didn't… but you did kiss me. It was quite heavenly. We were in a secluded booth at the restaurant but it was still in public, and you kissed me like no one was there."

"I remember…" Mary whispers.

"But that was the last time I kissed you. So of course I remember it."

Mary considers him, and smiles.

She leans down and puts her lips to his. He reacts in surprise but melts into the kiss, enjoying the taste of her lips once more.

"Now that wasn't the last time we kissed," she says, grinning.

He smiles too, more genuinely than she has seen from him in a very long time. "It's as lovely as I remember." He laughs a little bit, too, and it lightens Mary's heart. "Imagine if Mother found out. We did promise her we weren't touching at all."

"I guess we did break that promise," Mary says, giggling.

He looks at her softly. "Does this mean you love me?" He asks. His voice is so quiet, so afraid, and the question so simple, so sweet, so unsure. He looks at her with those pleading eyes that she could never refuse.

She wonders at how he could ask such a question so blatantly. But she also is pleased with his directness.

She grins. "I never stopped loving you."

"Neither did I," he admits. "I'm afraid it was painfully obvious to everyone but me. And maybe you. I think that's why Lavinia left so easily. She could see what you and I couldn't. And Mother knew. She told me, before we even left for Scotland, that you were in love with me. I didn't believe her. But now I'm starting to see…"

"Do you want confirmation? Because I'll tell you. I've been in love with you for the past four years. Once I started, I never stopped."

"Neither did I," he repeats. "Although I think I fell in love with you the moment I set eyes on you."

"I think you have me beat on that then," Mary replies, with a light laugh.

The love in his eyes, that love that has perhaps always been there, is so obvious now. "Thank you so much. For all you've done. And especially for saving my life."

"I was more than happy to do all of it. Although saving your life was fairly distressing for me."

"I'm so sorry about that. How can I ever repay you?"

"Perhaps you might be able to kiss me. To convince me you're real, and put out of my mind any memory that you could have died today?"

He grins and reaches for her face. "Gladly," he murmurs.

The passion in their kiss is long overdue, and the intensity is such that Mary almost fears Isobel walking in on them, but she is too occupied in the kiss to really consider such a possibility. They kiss and kiss, making up for lost time.

Until Matthew begins to wince.

"What's wrong?" Mary asks, pulling away from him and brushing his hair out of his face.

"I think you must have put a little bit of pressure on my leg, it's paining me a lot," he says. "It might not have been you, I was probably doing something stupid. And I'm so sorry to interrupt this because it's been absolutely lovely, but I do think I need medication for it…"

Mary gets up instantly and shifts into nurse mode. "Of course, I'll get that for you right away."

He frowns at having ruined the moment, but his leg really is paining him, more intensely than it has in weeks.

Mary comes back with a small cup and he tips it down his throat, trying not to really taste the disgusting concoction. He relaxes back into the pillows and sighs, trying to ignore the throbbing of the injury site.

"Are you alright, then?" Mary asks, the concern in her voice evident.

He nods. "Just fine, I must have moved it too much or something. This will help it a lot."

She considers him for a moment, and accepts this, lying down next to him again. She pulls the duvet over herself and gets close to him. "It's probably good that your mother either too strongly believes in your innocence or is too smart to comment on it."

Matthew smiles. "Yes, I'm not sure she'd be so happy with this arrangement. Mother's very open to some things, but some things she believes are entirely inappropriate."

"It's rather fun, though, don't you think? To sneak around like this."

His eyes are getting droopy, but he reaches for her hand. "It is. To do it with you."


	16. Delirium

Mary usually doesn't sleep in his room. But that night, she does. She falls asleep by his side. It's entirely appropriate, she reasons, as she is lying on top of his covers, wrapped in her own duvet. But it is enjoyable proximity. She sleeps deeply, comfortably, happily. Hearing his breathing by her side reassures her.

She wakes up the next morning and feels hot.

She figures that is normal when sharing a bed. She has never shared a bed for the night in her life, so everything is new to her.

Matthew is not yet awake.

She sits up and looks down at him. His face seems rather flushed, or at least as far as she can tell in the rising daylight that is streaming through the window.

Heat seems to radiate off of him.

She purses her lips. This does not seem quite right. She reaches a hand out to touch his face and sure enough, it is very warm. Out of the ordinary.

She feels her stomach drop, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Matthew," she whispers. "Matthew, wake up."

He slowly opens his eyes, although it seems to be a struggle for him. "Mary?" he questions groggily.

"How are you feeling, Matthew?" she asks, trying to hide the hint of desperation in her voice.

"I'm so cold," he murmurs, burrowing himself into the covers.

"Matthew, you're burning up, you..." Mary stops suddenly as everything becomes clear. "Don't move."

She runs across the hall to Isobel's room, and finding it empty, runs down the stairs. She is in her nightgown, without even her dressing gown over it, but she doesn't care. There is no time to think.

"Isobel!" she yells, sliding into the dining room where Isobel is quietly reading the paper and having breakfast. "Isobel, you need to come to Matthew's room right now."

Isobel isn't sure what is going on, but she doesn't need to be told twice. She hurries up the stairs to Matthew's room nearly as fast as Mary does.

When she enters the room, Mary is by his side already. "He has a fever," she says, in a whisper, "and it seems to be awfully bad and it just came on so suddenly, he was perfectly alright last night and now..."

Isobel comes over to him and feels his forehead and winces at the warmth. "Matthew," she whispers, "can you hear me?"

"Mother? My leg... it hurts," he whispers hoarsely.

Isobel frowns and looks at Mary. "Was he complaining of that last night?"

Mary nods. "He said he... must have moved it too much or something. He asked for medication for it."

This is obviously not a reassuring thing to say. Isobel takes a deep breath, trying to stop the panic from setting in. "Mary, go down to the kitchen right now and ask Daisy for a knife, and bring it back here right away. And be ready to call an ambulance."

Mary frowns. "Isobel, what is..."

"I can't explain now, Mary, just go quickly," Isobel says, returning to Matthew. She hurries to the bathroom and wets a rag with cold water, holding it to Matthew's forehead. "Shh, you're okay, darling. You're going to be okay," she murmurs.

He groans. "I'm so cold, Mother."

"I know. And soon you'll be very hot. You have a high fever, and that's normal with a fever like this," Isobel says.

"It hurts so much, it hardly hurt this badly when I came back."

"I know, I know," Isobel says.

Mary rushes back into the room with the knife. Isobel takes it from her wordlessly and pulls the covers off of Matthew. She begins to carefully cut into the plaster around Matthew's leg. It is slow going, difficult to get through but also necessitating carefulness. Eventually she manages to cut off the section right around where his bullet wound was.

Isobel's worst suspicions are confirmed.

The very nearly healed bullet wound is red, inflamed, and weeping. Isobel shakes her head. This was what she was most concerned about when they came to Scotland, and if it does damage...

She has to pull herself together. She looks at Mary. "Call the hospital. Right away. See if they can arrange to have an ambulance brought out here. If not... call Shrimpie and insist that he sends his chauffeur here right away. But an ambulance would be much better, easier to transport..."

"Isobel, what is going on?" Mary asks.

Isobel looks up and sees the desperation and the love in the young woman's eyes. "His leg's been infected."

Mary has to blink back tears. "Will he be alright?"

"Probably, but not if we don't get him to the hospital as soon as possible," Isobel says. "And once you've called, you'll probably want to get dressed. I think you're going to want to be with him."

It is one of the most nightmarish days Mary has experienced, and it comes right after the nightmarish day before. How is this fair, she wonders. Yesterday, just yesterday, had been so difficult, and that night she had finally felt better and now here she is, watching as Matthew's life hangs in the balance.

* * *

 

The hospital does send an ambulance out, thankfully, and Mary watched helplessly as two men carry Matthew down the stairs and out to the vehicle. She follows along, a small bag of things in hand as she and Isobel climb into the back of the ambulance. Mary holds Matthew's hand throughout the entire drive; he is half-conscious, groggy but aware of his surroundings, although the fever seems to be rising every minute, and the words he is saying make less and less sense. Holding his hand seems to be very hot. Isobel says nothing.

When the ambulance arrives at the hospital, Matthew is immediately taken away, leaving Mary and Isobel alone to wait.

The waiting is hard. It seems interminable. A few times, Isobel tries to see Matthew, so that she can offer advice and make sure he is alright, but a nurse holds her back. Mary has no such expertise, but she has fear, plenty of fear. Did saving Matthew's life yesterday simply lead to this?

Mary can't tell how long the wait is, although it seems like hours, before Dr. Warren comes out to speak with them. He wears a very grim look on his face.

"Mrs. Crawley, Lady Mary," he says curtly. "We've done all we can for him at the moment, but it's definitely infected, and badly too. We've put him in a room, and we're keeping him under close observation. The infection seems to be limited to his leg at the moment, and it it gets any worse, we may have to consider amputation."

Mary cannot hold in her gasp. She looks at Isobel, who seems grim but unsurprised.

"I see," Isobel says. "Well, you must do everything you can to ensure that amputation is not necessary, but if it is a last resort... I would much rather have a son with one leg than no son at all."

Mary shakes her head, unable to process. "Are we... allowed to see him?"

"You may, provided you clean your hands before going in. He's asleep right now, though. He may be sleeping a lot of the time in the next days. That or... delirious," Dr. Warren says. "He was quite delirious when he came in. Yelling nonsense about the war and all that. Another manifestation of his shellshock, I suppose. We did have to restrain him, for his own safety."

Mary's heart squeezes painfully. "Well, show us to his room," she says, with a bravery she does not feel.

Dr. Warren leads them wordlessly down a hallway to a small, private hospital room. "I'd advise you to let him sleep. He needs to be well rested to fight the infection."

"How did this happen?" Mary asks. "I thought the wound was healed."

"It was, almost. But bacteria is crafty and can get in, and with his leg being plastered it was a perfect environment for anaerobic bacteria to survive in."

"And the fever? It seemed so high..." Mary says.

"Normal reaction to an infection like that, the body is trying to burn off the bacteria. He'll likely be feverish for some time."

Mary presses her lips together and nods. She glances desperately at Isobel, whose face is impassive.

Dr. Warren opens the door to the hospital room and waves them in.

It is so painful to see him like this, Mary almost can't bear the sight. He is so much paler than he had been just the evening before, even more so than he had been when he came back from the front. The only color to his skin is the red, feverish flush of his face. His light hair is dark with sweat, matted to his head. He is moaning something indistinct, but from the deep unconscious furrow of his brow, Mary can tell it is something about the war. Her eyes trail down his body to where his arms are tied to the bed, his injured leg no longer casted, but instead splinted and heavily strapped down to the bed. She bites her lips and tries not to cry.

"He was flailing around too much, yelling nonsense about the war. We had to restrain his arms so he wouldn't hurt himself or the staff, and his leg because we didn't want him re-injuring it," Dr. Warren explains, noting her distress.

Mary frowns and turns to the doctor. "Won't that stress him more when he wakes up?"

"Someone will be with him when he wakes up to explain," Dr. Warren says.

"And hopefully we'll be here with him, too," Isobel says, putting a gentle hand on Mary's shoulder. She looks grim, but understanding.

Mary nods mutely and sits down, putting a palm to Matthew's feverish forehead.

* * *

 

When asked when the hardest year of her life was, Mary would without a doubt answer '1918'. But when asked when the nightmare of 1918 really started, she could not answer so easily. She could say it began that morning when Matthew woke up from a fever, and she feared so heavily for his life. She could say it began the day before, when she walked in on him with a gun to his head. Or she could easily mention the day she found out he was coming back from the front badly injured, the day she was told that her scandal would be published. Any of those were points of the nightmare. This point is simply one of the lowest.

The next few days pass by in a blur. She doesn't leave the hospital, instead, sleeping on a chair in his room. Isobel leaves only once, to get some things from the house. Mary stays by his side the whole time Isobel is gone.

The doctors and nurses come and go, checking on the wound, frowning occasionally. Dr. Warren comes by every so often and gives some grim sounding words to Isobel, but whenever Mary inquires as to what they were talking about, Isobel gives a tight-lipped smile and says, "Nothing for you to worry about, dear."

That only worries Mary more.

Matthew wakes intermittently, sometimes long enough for him to drink water and eat a little broth, but sometimes not even long enough for that. It is more and more difficult to get fluids into him, but the doctors insist they must have him eat and drink as much as possible.

Mary sits next to him, hardly leaving his side. Fear grips her heart, but she must be strong for him. What would she do if she lost him? She doesn't want to think about the possibilities. She cannot. All she desires is that he wakes up again, that he looks at her with those bright beautiful eyes, that he is once again with her.

But as his delirium continues, that hope seems to slip further away.

The fever doesn't break for five straight days. The infection isn't spreading too quickly, or at least that's what Mary can piece together from her limited medical expertise and the nothing they are telling her, but it's clearly not going away either.

Part of Mary is grateful that he is so unaware of his circumstances, but her heart constricts when she sees him call out in his delirium for other soldiers. For William... Her stomach drops when she sees him pull against the restraints. She knows it is for her safety and yet it seems to her that they're marking him as a madman, which Mary knows he is not.

Had it really been the night before this infection cropped up that they had spent so long talking and worked so much out? Had it really been the day before that he held the gun to his head, that she saved his life.

Now his life hangs in the balance yet again.

The fifth day is when things really take a turn for the worse. Dr. Warren comes in and checks on Matthew. After careful observation, he comes in and turns to Mary and Isobel, tightlipped. "The infection is spreading again. If the signs of infection are still this present by tomorrow... I'm afraid amputation may be our only option."

Mary grasps Matthew's hand tightly, trying to hold in a gasp. As hard as his current injury is on him, she can't imagine how much harder it will be if he actually loses his leg.

"I know that is very hard," Dr. Warren says, appearing more sympathetic than he ever has before, "but it may be his only chance at life."

Isobel nods, but Mary hangs her head and squeezes Matthew's hand tighter. "You really think it's that bad?" Mary whispers.

"He's been fighting for nearly a week, and so he's been weakened considerably. If it spreads too much further... I fear he may not be able to fight it."

Mary has to hold in a cry.

Isobel nods, her eyes not really focused on anything. "Thank you, Dr. Warren." She turns to Mary as the doctor leaves. "Mary, you need to go back to the house for a night," she says firmly.

"But..." Mary protests.

"Go call Shrimpie's chauffeur and ask him to take you back to the house. You haven't left here for five nights, you need a night of sleep in a real bed. Matthew will be fine for one night, I promise."

Mary frowns. "What if he isn't..."

"He will be," Isobel assures, although her voice shakes. "If anything goes wrong, I'll send for you to be picked up. How's that?"

Mary isn't particularly happy about it, but she agrees reluctantly.

Maybe, somewhere there, she'll be able to find hope.


	17. Luck

It is nice, Mary has to admit, to be out of the sterile, bright confines of the hospital. She steps out of the car and is happy to see Anna open the door.

"Anna! Could you possibly draw me a bath?" she asks. "I feel like I haven't washed myself for days."

Anna nods, then inquires, "How is Mr. Crawley?"

Mary shakes her head. "No one will tell me anything, but from what I can gather, not so good. It was hard to tear myself away, Isobel practically forced me to come here."

"We've all been praying for him, back here," Anna says earnestly. "While I'm drawing your bath, you might want to see, there's a package on the table for Mr. Crawley. You might want to see what's in there, considering..."

Anna doesn't fill in the rest, but Mary understands. What happened with the last package.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Anna."

Mary enters the dining room and sees a small box, with a letter on top of it, again from Major Hawthorn.

_Crawley,_

_Somebody, I'm not sure who, brought this back into the trench. They weren't sure what to do with it, but obviously, the rest of the men who have been around for a while immediately recognized it as yours. We knew how important it was to you, so I made sure to send it to you as soon as possible, although I doubt it will come with your other things. But the important thing is that it gets back to you. You called it your good luck charm, and I certainly hope its return will bring you luck in your recovery. God bless you, Crawley._

_Hawthorn_

Mary is incredibly curious as to what is in the package. Surely it couldn't be the dog, Matthew wouldn't have held on to that little thing...

She opens the box.

She comes face to face with her favorite childhood toy.

Her eyes fill as she turns it over and over again. It has clearly been cleaned, crudely, but still, cleaned. And without a scratch. Just as she asked him too.

But he had not come back without a scratch.

Mary blinks back tears as she thinks of him, fighting for his life.

She has to bring the dog back to him.

She calls Shrimpie's chauffeur on the phone and arranges to be picked up and driven to the hospital at the earliest possible hour of the morning.

She doesn't let go of the dog all night. She needs some of its strength before giving it to Matthew.

* * *

Mary is up and ready when it is still dark out, and Shrimpie's car comes rumbling up the driveway. The little dog is in her hand, and her grip on it is iron. She will not let go.

She gets in the car and requests that the chauffeur drive to the hospital as fast as possible. This is, of course, a very bumpy ride, but Mary can't bring herself to care. She just needs to be by Matthew's side as fast as possible.

She doesn't even bother speaking to anyone who greets her at the hospital door, instead rushing straight to Matthew's room. Isobel is asleep in the chair in his room when she arrives there, and Matthew, too is asleep, although his sleep is clearly not peaceful. Mary tiptoes in, hoping not to disturb either of them. She puts a gentle hand to Matthew's forehead, and grimaces to realize that his fever is still high. She glances back at Isobel to ensure that she is still asleep, and gently presses a kiss to his forehead, and slips the dog into his hand. "Without a scratch," she whispers, holding onto his hand.

Everything is quiet, silent, and Mary holds onto his hand for much longer than necessary, not wanting to let go for fear that he might slip away from her.

"You're back early," she hears from behind her. Mary panics when she turns around and sees Isobel awake. Did Isobel hear her? Did Isobel see her kiss him?

Isobel gives no indication of any of this, however. Instead, she gets up slowly from the chair and looks at her son, her eyes sad. "He hasn't improved."

"He just needs a few more hours," Mary says. What is she saying? She has no medical expertise; no one at the hospital will listen to her. But she knows, she just knows, and the dog will do its job and no way can she allow them to take away his leg when she knows he will get better. "Don't let them amputate. Not yet."

Isobel sighs and puts a hand on Mary's shoulder. "Mary, I know this is hard, but this may be the only way to save his life. And if we don't do it soon, he could die from it. And I'm not ready to lose my son..."

Mary hears the fear in Isobel's voice, and her heart clenches at the thought of losing Matthew. But she is right, she knows for sure, and they can't do this. Not yet.

"Give him a few more hours," Mary begs.

"Mary, I'm sorry, but you're not in a position to determine that."

Mary looks at the floor. Her reasoning is stupid, she knows, but the dog will bring him through. "When I went back to the house yesterday, there was a package there containing a little dog. My dog. I gave it to Matthew for luck, he lost it during that last battle, but his commanding officer found it and sent it back. I brought it to him today, and I know it sounds stupid but you need to give it a chance. I told him to bring it back without a scratch and he did. If only he had come back without a scratch..."

Isobel's eyes grow even sadder, which Mary almost didn't believe was possible. "I hope you're right."

"I hope so too," Mary says.

* * *

When Dr. Warren comes around and inspects Matthew, offering yet another one of his frowns that has become so familiar to Mary and Isobel, he says that it is very likely amputation would be necessary today. Isobel asks him to go through his rounds before fully deciding. The doctor does not seem happy with this arrangement, but eventually concedes.

To Isobel's surprise, Matthew's fever begins to go down. Afterwards, Mary claims it went down from the moment the dog touched his hand. She isn't sure of this at all, of course, but she likes to think she's right.

As Matthew's fever falls, his sleep goes from fitful to peaceful, and he seems to finally relax. Finally.

And Mary finally breathes.

Every few minutes, Isobel puts her hand on Matthew's forehead again. She can't quite believe it. Every time, she fears that the reprieve is short and his fever will go up again. But it stays down, and with every touch, Isobel seems to calm.

Mary touches the little dog a few times, offering silent thanks that he is okay.

Dr. Warren comes back, to a silent but calm room.

"It's gone down," Isobel says, her voice breathy and her eyes filling. "It might be gone by now."

Dr. Warren doesn't do a good job of hiding his surprise. "Really?" he says. He touches Matthew's forehead, then takes his temperature with a thermometer. "Indeed, he's very nearly back to normal now."

"Does that mean the infection is gone?" Mary asks. She hasn't realized it, but she's holding onto the dog which is still in Matthew's hand.

The doctor purses his lips. "For the moment, it would appear the body has overwhelmed it. However, it could easily crop up again within the next few days. And he will be very weak. He's not in the clear yet."

But for all the doctor's dark talk, Mary is assured that he will get better.

She sits in a chair by his side for the hours it takes him to wake up. Her hand touches him the whole time, and her eyes rarely leave his peaceful face. It is so nice to see it peaceful. Sure, it is aged and scarred and there seems to still be tension in his features even as he sleeps, but his face is so much more peaceful than it is when he is awake.

He will wake, she assures herself. But the thought of this scares her. The last time she talked to Matthew, really talked to Matthew, was that night before he got ill. The night after he attempted to kill himself. The night they realized... there is still love.

How do they deal with his suicide attempt now? Mary is sure, had he not gotten ill, that the few days after she found him would be difficult emotionally, having to sort through what led him to that point. But those few days are gone now, missing time, and she isn't sure where to start again. They need to talk about it, of course. She has not mentioned it to Dr. Warren, and neither has Isobel. They had not discussed it, but both silently agreed that Dr. Warren would hurt Matthew more than help him if he found out.

But now Matthew has to recover again, both physically and mentally.

Mary shudders to think how difficult it will be for him.

She feels a twitch by her hand, waking her from her thoughts. She stares at his face more intently than even before, and she sees his eyes begin to flutter.

A grin fills her face, growing as he opens his eyes.

* * *

There is too much light, he realizes as he tries to open his eyes. Too much light, and he can't quite handle that yet. He isn't used to it.

He keeps his eyes closed. His limbs feel heavy, as if weighed down by something, and of course there is still an intense pain in his leg, although it is not as bad as he remembers. He feels something in his hand, and he squeezes it, unsure of what it is. The touch does little to help, except he realizes that there is something besides the object. There is another human hand.

He can hear the hum of activity outside his room, but immediately around him is completely quiet. Peaceful. And for the first time waking up, he prefers the quiet to the loud he got so used to at the front. Even the weight on his limbs is making him feel peaceful. He is warmand cozy, but not sweaty like he has been for the last few days.

He has been so long in a state of war; this is peace.

Even without opening his eyes, he can sense her presence. Mary is there, by his side. He can feel her warmth, the silkiness of her skin touching him. He can smell her too. She is not wearing any perfume, but there is a scent that is distinctively Mary, slightly floral, very homey. He lets a smile fill his face at the peace he feels.

He is tired, exhausted really, but he wills himself to slowly open his eyes.

* * *

Mary's eyes meet his as they open, and she has to hide her gasp of delight. For so long she has been worried, and here he is, really, truly awake. It is all she can do to keep herself from kissing him. But Isobel is in the room.

"Matthew!" she whispers, running a hand through his hair.

He blinks up at her, focusing his eyes, unable to speak for a moment. Slowly, he opens his mouth. His voice is rough and his throat is sore, the infection has taken a lot out of him and he hasn't had a proper drink for a while. But he says her name. "Mary. What... happened?"

"Your leg got infected. Badly," Mary says, not taking her eyes off him. "You've been unconscious for... six days? I think. It's been a bit of a blur. They were thinking they might have to amputate your leg, but it seems to have gone away."

His stomach drops as he looks down at his injured leg, but it is still there, splinted tightly. He begins to reach up towards Mary but something is holding his arm in place. He begins to panic. "Mary, what is..."

She presses her lips together and frowns. "You were flailing around quite a bit. I think you had some bad dreams while you had the fever. Anyway, they didn't want you hurting yourself or anyone else. But you're alright now. I'll take them off. Dr. Warren might not be happy with me, but you're not going to hurt anyone."

He smiles as she gently removes the restraints. "The dog..." he says, squeezing his hand around it.

"Hawthorn sent it. I went back to the house last night, and it was there. He said he hoped it would bring you luck in your recovery. I think it did."

Matthew blinks and looks up at her. "You should have it," he says, softly. He holds it up, although it seems to be a lot of effort for him to do so. "I've had it for far too long."

"No, you need to keep it," Mary replies, touching his arm and bringing it down onto the bed. "I think you could still use a little bit of luck."

* * *

Dr. Warren visits again that evening, while Matthew is still awake. "Well, Mr. Crawley," he says, checking on the wound which seems to be clear of any infection, "you are a very lucky man."

Matthew presses his lips together in a tight smile. He is exhausted, which seems absolutely ridiculous considering he has barely been awake for the last week, but he is exhausted all the same. "I suppose I have been rather lucky." He turns his eyes to Mary and her heart beats faster as she realizes what all he is speaking of.

"Provided the infection doesn't come back, you should be in the clear. I don't want you getting up at all for a few days, but I'll organize an x-ray to see how your leg has healed. It's been three months since your initial injury, hasn't it? It may be time to get you up and about again."

This makes Matthew really smile. "Thank you, doctor."

"Of course, before we can do that, you need to rebuild your strength. I'm assuming you're feeling quite exhausted."

"I am..." he replies.

"Well, rest plenty in the next few days, and hopefully the infection will not come back," Dr. Warren says. He begins to walk out the door, then turns to Matthew. "You really are a very lucky man. I was certain we would have to amputate your leg, and afraid that you might die. And yet here you are."

"I think I have a lot to live for," Matthew says softly, turning his eyes to Mary.

* * *

Mary can't stop thinking about that sentence. I think I have a lot to live for. It is music to her ears, and it gives her such a sense of relief. But she needs to talk to him, assure herself that his sentiment is real. That he does have a lot to live for.

Isobel and Mary had made a silent pact to not mention the suicide attempt to Dr. Warren at all, and they hadn't. But even once Dr. Warren leaves, Mary still doesn't feel comfortable really talking honestly to Matthew with Isobel still in the room. When Isobel chooses to go back to the house to get refreshed from the days spent anxiously in the hospital, Mary sees her chance.

She doesn't bother with a chair, instead sitting on the edge of his bed, close, so close to him.

"You said you have a lot to live for. I hope that's true," she says. The words are still in her mind, and there is hope blossoming.

"If I've survived this pretty much unscathed, then I think something is trying to say that this life is worth living. Even though it's hard, even though I still feel so broken and like such a burden, I figure, considering I'm still here maybe there's something left for me in this life."

Mary pats his hand. "It's worth it."

"I hope so."

She tries to smile at him, but there is a sob in the back of her throat that is holding her back. She is happy, of course, but so emotionally overwhelmed from the last week. "You... put your mother and I through an awful lot this week," she says. "Please, don't get so close to death again."

"Did you really think I was going to die?" he asks. His eyes are wide with worry.

"You were so feverish, so ill. I didn't really know how bad it was, but it looked terrible and I could barely leave the room for fear of you slipping away. And you were so delirious, calling out, it seemed like your nightmares were the worst they'd ever been. So of course I was terrified that you were going to die."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "And then I know I terrified you with ...what happened before."

"Are you ready to talk about it?" Mary asks. She hates pushing him, but they can't ignore what happened forever.

"I've been kind of out of it for the last week," he says, trying to force a laugh. "But... I will be. Soon, I think. Because now I have hope for life ahead."

Mary grins and takes his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb in gentle circles around it. "Where did you find that hope?"

"You."

It is all Mary can do to keep from kissing him. She knows that is not what he needs; Dr. Warren has warned them that he is still delicate and prone to reinfection, and cleanliness standards must be kept. Kissing is not to those cleanliness standards, she is sure.

But she will kiss him again, she assures herself. Because from now one, she's going to keep being his hope.

And in a way, he will be hers.


	18. Changed

Mary asks Dr. Warren every day when they can get Matthew out of bed, because she can tell he is getting anxious and bored being stuck there. She too is getting tired of his hospital room, although she is loath to leave it.

Finally, several days after Matthew wakes, up, Dr. Warren permits her to take him out, in a wheelchair. His leg is still splinted and not as secure, and looking at him, Mary isn't certain he could support himself anyway. He looks so weak, so thin, and the infection has taken a lot out of him.

Whatever the circumstances, Matthew is delighted to leave the hospital room. It is too cold to go out to the courtyard, but Mary pushes him around the corridors until they find an empty day room.

As she pushes him down the hallway, Mary reflects that she will likely remember this date forever. And not simply for Matthew's sake.

She pushes the chair right next to a seat in the day room, and smiles at him. "How are you feeling?"

"Still weak," he says, softly. "But better for being up."

She pats his hand. "I'm glad."

He looks at her intently, sensing hesitance. "You have something to tell me."

"Yes, I do, and I'm hoping it's good news for you," she says. She now takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. "The war is over, Matthew. It ended today, at 11 o'clock."

His eyes widen, and they are so blue, so bright. He stares at her for a second, and then looks away, processing. He doesn't let go of her hand. "It's... over."

"We won, Matthew. It's done."

He tries to smile, but there are tears in his eyes. "Did we win? So many men dead and injured, and just utterly broken."

"And that's finished now. No one else will be broken by it," Mary consoles.

He blinks, turning away from her and then back to her quickly. He swallows heavily, his eyes getting blearier by the minute. "It's just..." he chokes out the words, "I don't think there were any winners in this war. It was stupid and pointless and so many people died for no real reason, and no one is satisfied, and it should never have happened in the first place."

"But aren't you glad it's over?" Mary asks. She is concerned that bringing this up will cause him a setback.

He is staring at his feet now. "Of course I am. But I hate that it happened. And it's not really over, not for me anyway."

She frowns. "It will fade, with time."

His eyes snap back to hers and she takes in a breath at how icy they turn in an instant. "How can you know?"

"I don't, but trust me, I'm going to do my best to make it go away."

"Alas, we are only humans. Wars like this spiral out of our control quickly, and the only way to resolve them is to realize the pointlessness of the death and destruction."

Mary presses her lips together and gets closer to the edge of the seat. Anything to be closer to him when he needs her. "We did, eventually. It's over now, and no one else will get hurt by it. And you're home, and you're safe, and you're loved, Matthew. Everyone back at home was so concerned for you, when I wrote of your infection. Your mother and I could barely leave your side. You're so loved, and we're all so glad you're still here."

"Did you..." his voice catches, "write to them about the other thing..."

She closes her eyes. "No. They don't need to know."

"Thank you," he says.

"No one but your mother and I know, and we can keep it that way, if you prefer," Mary informs him, her voice so soft.

"I would."

She squeezes his hand. "But if you ever feel like you need to talk about it, I'm here for you."

He pauses and bites his lip, staring at his feet. Finally, he looks up, but he doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I hate that I tried, Mary, I really do. I don't know if I can even explain why I tried, because my mind is such a muddle of so many things that I had no control over but everything felt so bleak, and death felt like the only reasonable escape, and I figured it was only fair that I die considering all the men I've killed... they were haunting me, Mary. And I was afraid, so afraid of what else my mind might haunt me with. And the future looked so bleak, too, looking forward to a life where I could not get the war out of my head and a painful injury that will never fully heal and... I'm still scared. I'm so afraid of the future. But I can't imagine it now, how I could do that to you and Mother. When you knocked, I thought about pulling the trigger and getting it over with, but thank God you didn't give me time to decide. You saved my life, Mary, and I think you save it every day."

Mary has to fight to keep from tearing up. "I'm... so glad you're starting to see your worth."

He shakes his head and tries to smile, but there are tears coming to his eyes too. "It's hard, I won't lie. I'm sure there will be days again where I think I might have been better off if I had been left to die. I know there's moments where I think it, but there's also moments where I realize how beautiful something is, or... how much I'm loved, and then I know it's worth it. And with you by my side, I think I can make it."

There is silence between them, as Mary doesn't really know what to say. She is glad, so desperately glad, that things are looking up for him, even if in the smallest way.

Eventually, he looks at her straight on again, and those eyes, those blue, blue eyes pierce into her. "Did you... say you loved me? That wasn't a fever dream, was it?"

Mary almost laughs, his question is so innocent, so hopeful, so afraid. "Of course I said it. And you said it too."

"Really?" he says, and there's a genuine smile on his face. "I thought I had dreamt it, that was just too perfect, because I had wished you would say that for years, and now... you actually said it."

"Remember though, we weren't going to tell your mother. Or else I probably wouldn't be able to keep the door between our rooms open," she says softly, in a childish whisper. This is exciting, hiding such a lovely secret.

He is almost giddy with excitement, but his face slowly begins to fall. "I just wish... God Mary, I wish I could be better for you. You can't possibly... want to be with me like this..."

"Could you possibly want to be with me? I'm damaged goods," Mary says. "The whole world knows it too."

He shakes his head vehemently. "No. You're not. I certainly could be considered damaged goods though, considering my ability to function has been fairly impaired by this shellshock. Who knows what I'll be able to go back to..."

"You've hardly been back three months," Mary says.

"That's a long time."

"You're still transitioning," she insists, "and it's getting better, isn't it?"

He frowns. "I'm not sure why you think trying to kill myself is 'getting better'. Because that's about where I was at. Now... I'm not sure, but I've been out of it for a week so I'm only now getting what little bearings I had back. Are you and Mother going to insists that someone is with me at all times, so I don't slip again? I heard you talking about it."

"Maybe. I don't think we'll be comfortable leaving you totally alone, although we'll give you privacy, if you need it."

"I don't think I want privacy, at least not during the nights. I sleep so much better with you by my side."

Mary clasps both his hands in hers. "Then I will stay by your side, as much as I can, if that brings you peace."

"I can't believe you love me," he says, changing the topic quickly. "When I asked, I was sure you would laugh at me and think it was absolutely hysterical in the saddest possible way that I could possibly think you were in love with me. I was sure it was a dream that I was mistaking for reality. But now..."

She leans forward and kisses him. "Believe it," she says.

He melts into the kiss, enjoying the touch of her lips on his, aching for more. But they must pull apart for air, and then, he is afraid to go back for more. It is like a dream, the only good dream he has had for months and months on end. And he doesn't want this dream to end. He fears that he will wake up again, just as broken and desperate and anxious and unlovable.

He still feels unlovable.

How could she love this broken shell of a man, who has given nothing to her but heartbreak?

But then he remembers the feeling of her lips.

He rests his weary head on her shoulder. "I do, now." There is a pause, a gentle, peaceful, silence. "Did you come up here for me? I know you said..."

"I said I came here because of Pamuk, and that was true... is true. I mean, at least it's partially true. And I wanted to think that was the sole reason. But somewhere, subconsciously for me, it was always you."

He wants to kiss her again, but someone else comes into the day room, an older woman wheeling in another broken soldier. Their privacy is gone. They nod to the other people, and Mary takes a serious look at Matthew.

"You look tired. Let's get you back to bed," she says firmly. The spell seems to be broken.

He wants to protest, since he's been so tired of laying in bed for nearly two weeks, but he has to admit, he is tired. So he acquiesces, as it's not like he has much of a choice anyway, and he leans back into the chair as Mary brings him back to his room.

Once he is back, comfortable in bed, he reaches for her hand again. "I want to get out of here, so we can be alone again. And I'm sick and tired of being here."

"I know," she replies. "You can come back home soon."

He closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillows. "Is home here?"

"Home is wherever my family is."

His eyes still closed, he smiles softly.

* * *

Isobel comes back to the room to find a sleeping Matthew, with Mary sitting by his bedside. She puts a hand on Mary's shoulder. "You should go back to the house for a little while," she says gently. "You've barely left."

"He needs me," Mary replies, not taking her eyes off Matthew.

Isobel presses her lips together, but a smile plays at the edges. "He'll be alright without you for a few hours. Go back, take a bath, and enjoy being out of here for a little while. Maybe you should stay overnight and get some real sleep, but I doubt you will."

"I doubt it too," Mary says, but she reluctantly stands up and makes to leave.

"Did you tell him?" Isobel asks, as Mary gathers her things. "About the end of the war?"

"Yes."

"How did he take it?"

Mary can't look at him or Isobel. She stares at the chair in the hospital room, frowning. "He took it alright, I think. He's glad it's over, but he was becoming bitter about it happening. He opened up a little bit about... what happened before." She still has to use a euphemism, the fear of Matthew's attempt on his life too fresh. "He talked about how bleak everything was for him. He says it's not all better yet, but he has reasons to live now."

"What are those reasons?" Isobel asks.

Mary freezes. Letting Isobel know will result in constant chaperoning of her interactions with Matthew, something neither of them want. "He didn't say, really. But he seemed quite convinced he had them, so that's certainly a good thing."

Isobel nods, and takes the chair next to Matthew's bedside. "I'm presuming he doesn't want to tell the doctor? About what happened?"

"No." Mary shakes her head. "I told him it was just between us, that no one else has to know. He seemed pleased with that arrangement."

"We'll keep it that way then. No need for more people to be prodding at him when I'm sure we're bad enough," Isobel says, trying to lighten the painful nature of the past few weeks. The past few months, really. Everything since Matthew came back from the front has been difficult. But Isobel glances at her son, lying relatively peacefully on the bed, and she is so grateful that he's here with her. "Go on then," she says, waving Mary out. "The sooner you get back the more you can relax."

"I'm certain I won't relax until I'm back here, but I will take your advice. Thank you, Isobel."

Isobel watched the door as she leaves, quickly turning her eyes back to her sleeping son. He looks so peaceful, none of the struggles that have plagued the last few months crowning his brow. She is glad, so glad, that his sleep at the moment is without nightmares. She knows she may have to wake him soon, but for the moment, he is alright.

She takes out a newspaper and reads the front page article yet again. The war is over. This horrific war, that has taken so many men and ruined so many more, this awful war that nearly took her darling boy. It is done with, it will not hurt another young boy.

But it will keep hurting Matthew.

This causes a bitter bile to rise in her throat, but she swallows. Matthew is here, alive, and healing, and that is enough. She must console herself again.

She reads the article again.

It is over. That is enough.

Her prediction is correct and Matthew is soon in need of rousing. He fights against the covers, writhing and twisting and calling out for someone. William, like it usually is? No, she can't quite make out the name. She pauses for a second, trying to make it out.

Mary.

He is calling for Mary.

Her heart clenches. It is good that he has found support in Mary, and yet it is strange to her that Mary is the name on his lips.

But she cannot think of that now. Instead, she must wake him and take him out of his nightmare.

She talks softly to him, squeezes his hand, and brushes hair off of his forehand with her other hand. "Darling, wake up. You're here. You're alive. Wake up."

She does this for several minutes, feeling him writhe even more under her touch, trying to get away from her. It concerns her, but she cannot allow it to. So she holds his hand firmly, and keeps talking to him, hoping to tear him away from his painful seeming nightmare.

Finally, he wakes with a start, breathing heavily, a sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. His eyes dart around wildly until they finally manage to focus on his mother above him.

Isobel presses her lips together. Clearly he is not free of the war, and she is starting to doubt that he will ever be completely free.

"I was..." he begins, his jaw working, the sweat beading across his face.

"Shh," Isobel says. "You're alright, it was just a bad dream. You're still in the hospital in Scotland, but I think in a few days we should be able to bring you home."

It takes him a few minutes to process everything, but eventually he gets himself together enough to respond to her. "When could I be able to go home?"

"Dr. Warren thinks in two or three days, probably. He's arranged an x-ray tomorrow to see if your leg is healed enough to start taking some of your weight. It's been three months since you came back from the front, you know."

Has it really, he wonders. This is so unbelievable to him, since time seems to both come so quickly and so slowly. It seems just days ago when he was out on the battlefield, but at the same time, the days drag by slowly, and the long, fear-filled nights are not much better. He has been back for three months and he is still a wreck. It's hard to see much room for improvement. But he steels himself; hope is good. Hope will keep him alive, he thinks. And if he doesn't have much hope, at least he has Mary.

"If it's healed," Isobel continues, once she senses that Matthew is listening, "they'll start you on a few sessions of physical therapy to get you back on your feet. It will take a little while for it to get more comfortable to walk on, but you should be able to eventually."

"So I'll just be somewhat crippled," Matthew mutters bitterly.

"We don't know that, Matthew," Isobel protests.

He frowns. "You do. You're just trying to hide it from me."

"We don't know if it will have healed well, but we also don't know that it healed badly. You can afford to have a little bit of hope."

Matthew's icy eyes meet hers and his stare is disconcerting. "Every bit of hope I somehow still have left in me is being used up to keep my will to live going, and to try and believe that someday the war will leave me. And even that isn't doing too much for me."

Isobel sighs and pats his hand. "It's been very hard for you. And you've been very brave."

"Even though I tried to take the coward's way out?" he asks bitterly.

"You are not a coward, Matthew. This is not an easy thing that you're dealing with, lesser men would be far more cowed than you are."

"If I wasn't a coward, then I wouldn't have this damn shellshock in the first place!" he says, raising his voice. Isobel tries to calm him.

"That's not true, Matthew. Many brave men have been troubled in the same way, it is not a slight on your character nor your bravery. It is just an effect of this terrible, terrible war, just as your leg injury was another awful effect."

He turns away from her, clearly not believing her.

"It's a shame, really, that the mental effects of the war are regarded as cowardice when oftentimes they cannot be helped. I saw it in the Boer war and I see it now. Of course, it is difficult to change society's views on such things, but I believe it should change, especially now that so many men, through no fault or flaw of their own, are suffering from shellshock," Isobel continues.

"Are you saying we should not be held responsible for our actions?" he murmurs. "Because they are apparently out of our control? Should I not be held responsible for hitting Lavinia? Or threatening Dr. Warren? Or... trying to kill myself? Those are all manifestations of my condition, and yet they are real, harmful issues that hurt other people and that I should be held responsible for."

"It is a paradoxical thing," Isobel replies. "And in a way, you are held responsible for those things. You face the natural consequences of such things. Generally outside consequences shouldn't be imposed since the natural consequences are enough. I know you are held responsible for those things, Matthew, because you hold yourself responsible. And that also lets me know that you're still in there, still the same duty bound little boy I raised. So I don't feel the need to impose other consequences on you. All of these things you have done are because you are shellshocked, and while yes, you are responsible for them, because you are taking full responsibility for them and not blaming them on your condition, which would be reasonable to do, I know that it's not really you doing those things. So while I hold you responsible, I know you hold yourself even more responsible, and that allows me to have sympathy for you."

He looks at her blankly, as if not totally comprehending what she says. Maybe he doesn't, because her speech is a mess of moral dribble that he can't understand without paining himself. But he can see the love in her eyes and knows that, even if what she says sounds strange to him, she's probably right and what's more, she loves him. And that's the most valuable thing to Matthew.

He may hate himself, but between Mary and his mother, he is loved.

He is so loved, so much more that he deserves, and he shivers at the thought of it. How could he think of hurting them the way he could have if he had gone through with it?

This makes him begin to hate himself even more, but he tries to pull himself back. If he can't be bothered to live for himself, he can at least live for them.

He remembers how selfless he used to try to be, how noble, how honorable. But was it ever really selfless, or was it his need to be morally superior? He never had all that much that set him apart, except for that.

And now, that is all gone. He is selfish, awful, a murderer, really. The war has brought him so far away from what he used to believe he was, and it is terrifying. He is a monster, torn up by the war. But he cannot blame what he does on the war.

It is his human nature that leads him to hurt others the way he has. The war just made his nature impossible to resist.

Was he really a terrible person beforehand, hiding under a veneer of honor and nobility? Did he really feel any remorse on the battlefield? No, he killed men without questioning it. How could he have? He didn't care then. He still doesn't think of them much now.

Did the war just bring out what was lurking below the surface of his personality?

This thought bothers him far more than he has ever admitted to anyone, because he has always prided himself on being a good person. He has always desired to be considered good by others.

But was he ever really the good man he esteemed himself to be?

What is the alternative though? He might have been good in the first place, but now he lost his very character in the war? That alternative is not much better.

He doesn't want to bring it up. He knows his mother will reassure him that he is still a good, honorable man, but he doesn't care for listening to things he doesn't believe. He has killed without remorse, hurt people he loves, threatened people he doesn't, and almost gave those he loves the most devastating shock of their lives. How could he do that to them?

He would be better off dead, really, and they'd all do better without him, but at the same time, he couldn't do that to them. Not when they love him so fiercely.

This isn't just about the flashbacks, the fear, the confusion, the anger. This is about who he used to be, and who he has become. That scares him almost more than the memories of the war. He hates who he has become.

"Mother," he asks, finally, his voice weak.

"Yes?" she responds, and the love is still filling her eyes. How can she love him so much?

"Was I ever really a good man? I know I'm not now, but was I ever really a decent, kind man? Sometimes I think I was just pretending, and then the war stripped away everything from me and there was nothing left but the real man inside, who isn't nearly so pleasant or kind of good."

Isobel sighs, that sad sigh that he's heard so much whenever the things that the war has done to him are brought up. "How could you believe that you're still not a good man? What makes you think that the war has changed you that irrevocably."

"You've heard what I've said. You've seen what I've done. I've hurt so many people, mother, and I almost completely devastated you. I have no regard anymore for anyone but myself, it seems, and I cannot hide everything I've done, and I hate myself for what I've done and who I've become. And you've said you do hold me responsible for all of it. So I'm not sure if I've become this or if I always was like this, and I just managed to hide it until now."

Isobel reaches out and holds his hand in hers. "Matthew, the very fact that you're so worried about this proves to me that you are a good man, because you want to be a good man. There's nothing natural about it, you work at it and perhaps right now it might be harder, there are more obstacles in your way, but you will get past them and you will continue being the good, honorable man you always have been."

He stares at her, sadly. "You might be right, you usually are. I just wish I could believe it."


	19. Prognosis

Matthew seems to cheer up, if ever so slightly, when he wakes up to see Mary by his side the next morning.

He smiles at her, his eyes a pale blue, slightly red-rimmed. "You must have woken up early to get here by now?"

"I woke up at 5:30," Mary acquiesces. "It wouldn't be my normal time but I'm on anything but a normal sleep schedule right now, so I can't bring myself to mind. I assure you, I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow last night."

Matthew nods. "Good."

"And how about you? How did you sleep?"

He shrugs and pushes himself to sit up against the pillows. "The good thing about being so exhausted all the time is that sometimes I'm too tired to even have nightmares, and last night was one of those nights. So, all in all, pretty good I'd say."

"Good," Mary replies, imitating him. She throws a glance over to Isobel, who is still asleep in the armchair in the corner of the room. "When is Dr. Warren coming for the x-ray?"

"I don't know," Matthew says. "No one tells me anything."

"No one tells me anything, either," Mary says.

There is a slight shine in Matthew's eyes that tells her that maybe he's humored.

"So they should get you up and walking soon?" Mary asks. She knows perfectly well the answer to this, as she has tried her best to investigate the plan for Matthew's recovery throughly, despite occasionally being kept in the dark. However, she wants to hear it from Matthew's lips, and she wants to encourage him if she can.

"That's the plan, anyway," he says, pressing his lips together. "Not sure how it'll work out, though."

"You'll get there," Mary says. "The doctors know what they're doing... at least in terms of the physical things."

Matthew rolls his eyes. "No one knows how to deal with the mental issues though."

"Medical science will get there," Mary says. "It's certainly not there for now, but at least you know that. You don't have to take their opinions seriously. You know yourself better than they know you."

He sighs. "It's just... they should know what they're doing, they're medical professionals. And yet no one is helpful at all. Dr. Carter was able to diagnose it, but he was just telling me something I already knew. And Clarkson has been useless with it, and Warren has been especially useless... I just wish someone knew how to help."

"I wish they did too, but for now, everyone is doing their best. And your mother and I are doing our best, too."

"I know you are," he replies genuinely, taking her hand in his and rubbing his thumb on it. "Despite everything, you're still here. And somehow..." his voice trails off as he glances to Isobel in the corner, still asleep. He lowers his voice and grins like a naughty child, "somehow, you love me."

"That has always been true, and it hasn't changed," Mary says.

"If only it didn't take us years to realize it."

* * *

The examination of Matthew's leg is an arduous process, or at least it seems to be for Matthew, and he is on the verge of snapping at Dr. Warren several times. Mary remembers the story Matthew told her about the officer he hated so, and she stays close to him throughout most of the process, hoping that her presence will help him stay here, and not fall back to France.

Dr. Warren takes Matthew into an examination room, removes the splint, and carefully examines the wound for what seems like forever. Thankfully, the bullet wound seems to be fully healed; there is little risk of infection now, which is a relief to Mary and Isobel. He massages the leg, feeling all the muscles and tendons, and putting Matthew in no small amount of pain. Then he takes an x-ray of the leg. The actual taking of the x-ray is fast, but Dr. Warren leaves to develop the picture in the darkroom, leaving Matthew to sit anxiously for an hour.

"It's alright, Matthew," Isobel says, noticing how he is worrying the wood of the chair he sits in with his fingers. "Everything will be alright. Is there something you need?"

He purses his lips. "Distraction."

Isobel sighs, her mind wandering to what could possibly distract her struggling son.

"I'm going to go into town soon," Mary says. She hardly thinks about how brave of an action this is; even up here in rural Scotland, people seem to know about the scandal. And yet, she is perfectly happy to keep her word, if this makes Matthew feel better for a moment. "There's a lovely little bookshop near the post office, is there anything you want me to pick up?"

Matthew looks at her, his bright blue eyes intent, before attempting a smile. "I noticed Shrimpie's library doesn't have Persuasion, and that's one I've been wanting to reread."

"Really? You've never struck me as an Austen person. Aren't you a little more intellectual than that?"

"You're saying Austen isn't intellectual? Considering how intelligent she makes her characters, especially her female characters, I should think her quite the intellectual."

It brings Mary such joy to see him like this. "Perhaps, and yet she seems to reflect the ideals of her era with rose colored glasses. Everything works out perfectly for the girl who marries rich and yet somehow for love."

"She's quite subversive of those values, though, if you look closely. Most other authors of that time would hardly dream of having a female protagonist with agency, and yet there they are. Lizzie Bennet, Anne Elliot..."

Mary is excited about this conversation. She leans forward in her seat, closer to Matthew, her eyes wide. "But still, a major theme of her novels seems to be that somehow if you marry rich and for love, your life will be all perfect. But then again, most of her protagonists managed that."

"All but Anne Elliot, that is," Matthew says. "Persuasion is a different animal, I think."

There is nothing she loves more than this; intelligent discussions with him, an argument for the sake of discussion. This is the old Matthew, back again, intelligent and measured in his arguments, brilliant and persuasive. And she loves it. "How so?" she asks. She just wants to hear him talk about this more.

"Anne ended up with Wentworth, her love, but they were not guaranteed happiness at the end. He was still below her, a middle class man with nothing to his name but a captaincy and service in the navy. Who knew if people would accept her with him, if people would care now that her position was lowered? She wasn't getting the best of both love and money when she married him. She was only marrying for love. And who knows how it turned out after that?"

"I'd like to think they were very happy," Mary combats.

"But who knows for sure if life works out that way?"

"I'd hope that after seven years of pining after each other, a couple would be reasonably sure that they can weather any storms that may come their way."

Matthew gazes at her, his eyes soft, and lets a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose that is a reasonable hope."

Isobel watched them interact curiously. She can't quite decipher the meaning under what they are saying, but she knows there is something between them aside from the literary banter. And yet she can't worry too much about it, because it has been a long time since she has seen Matthew this engaged in a conversation. This is her son she remembers from before the war, who would sit in his room and read books rather than go to a dinner party, who would rather talk about fictional characters than cricket, who likes to point out the qualities of under appreciated authors in a defensive way. She has missed this Matthew, and it is nice to see him back in some small form.

"Of course, the storms may not have been so severe for Wentworth. After all, he somehow came back from war in a blaze of glory, and not as a broken man..." Matthew continues, and both Isobel and Mary can see that his mood has taken a sudden turn for the worse.

Mary reaches out to touch his hand. "War was different then, or at least the perceptions of it were. And who could expect Austen to accurately depict the struggles of a man back from the fighting?"

"She seemed to know plenty about romance and marriage though, despite never marrying," Matthew replies.

"That's true. In fact, the situation of Anne and Wentworth is strikingly familiar. A middle class man completely and honestly in love with a woman who is considered above him, who is told by a meddling relative that he isn't good enough for her, so they break apart... The man goes to war, anguished over the rejection, but comes back a hero. The woman realizes that she has loved him the whole time, but fears it is too late, fears that he has moved on. She tries to move on also. And yet nothing works, she is still desperately in love with him."

He frowns. "But would Anne really have stayed with Wentworth if he had come back from war broken, rather than a richer hero who was slightly more acceptable to her family?"

Mary's gaze is so full of love, although Matthew isn't looking at her, but at his lap. "I think so," Mary says, "if personal experience is anything to go off of."

Isobel draws in a sharp breath, hoping neither notices. She knows now, she sees it. Really, she has known it for a long time, that they are utterly in love, but she thought they didn't know it. But they have finally figured it out, it seems.

That is a good thing, especially for Matthew.

* * *

They sit in silence for a while, thinking over what has been said. Matthew hangs on to every positive word of their conversation, hoping not to fall back into despair again, as he is wont to do.

Dr. Warren comes in, interrupting the silence that had settled upon the waiting trio. "The x-rays have developed," he says. "Captain Crawley, would you rather I speak to you alone, or would you prefer to have your mother and cousin with you?"

Matthew flinches at the use of his military title; it brings back too many bad memories. However, he manages to get out, "I'd like them to stay."

"Alright," Dr. Warren says, taking a seat next to Isobel, across from Matthew. "Well, the good news is, your leg has healed some. Most of the torn muscles have healed, and the femur... it's healed to at least look like a femur now, which is much better than it was originally. That said, the patellar tendon was nearly completely torn, and most of what has healed is scar tissue, so you will have some difficulty bending and straightening your leg, and it will always be quite a bit weaker than your other leg. I think we should get you up and walking soon though, so you don't lose more muscle in your injured leg. I'll start you on a therapy regimen tomorrow, and you'll probably have to come back here for physical therapy a few times a week."

Matthew nods, looking a little bit overwhelmed. "But I should be able to walk?"

"Yes, you should. It won't be the same as it was before, and you may have a significant limp, but you'll be mobile at least."

It was about what they had expected, but Mary is still concerned that this news will be hard on Matthew.

She gazes at him, trying to meet his eyes, but he will not meet hers. He stares at his leg in front of him, frowning.

"There's more good news though; we'll want to keep you here tomorrow and the next day so we can start you on a therapy regimen and make sure that everything is as it should be, but then you should be able to go home."

His mouth works to whisper 'home'. And the slightest hint of a smile spreads across his face.

Scotland, in a way, is his home. It isn't, of course, not really, but wherever Mary is always feels like home.

He gains the strength to look up and her, and meet her eyes. "I'll be very glad to go home," he says.

Dr. Warren pats his shoulder. "Good. And may I ask, how has this little shellshock business been coming along?"

Matthew immediately tenses, and it takes all of Mary's strength to not jump to her feet in anger. Instead, she silently fumes. But she will not say anything; she does not want to reveal something that Matthew does not want the doctor to know.

"I'm doing alright," he says, and Mary and Isobel both know it is a blatant lie. "I've slept through the night, and I have ...something to keep me going." His voice shakes even as he says this, but perhaps, in a way he's telling the truth. He's just leaving out the fuller truth, not mentioning the horrible things that have resulted from his shellshock.

"Very good," Dr. Warren says. "I knew you'd get over it."

Matthew presses his lips together, clearly hurt by the doctor's careless words. "Yes... get over it..."

Mary is glaring daggers at the doctor, but only behind his back. He is wrong, so wrong, about Matthew, about everything going on with Matthew's mind, and about Matthew's strength. Part of her is desperate to set Dr. Warren to rights on what has been going on, but she knows that isn't what Matthew wants. And she knows that if she were to tell the doctor about the suicide attempt, the results would be disastrous for Matthew.

So she keeps it in, but she gets up from her chair and puts a hand of Matthew's shoulder, squeezing it, willing him to stay strong.

Dr. Warren doesn't seem to notice the uncomfortable tension in the room. "I'll come by tomorrow to bring you to Dr. Robinson. He got trained a year or so ago in some of the techniques of physical therapy and then got sent up here to help with recuperating soldiers here. He's very good, I believe you'll like him."

Matthew is tempted to roll his eyes, but he does not. Instead, he nods, says, "Thank you, doctor," in a very polite, stilted manner, and turns to Mary, clearly upset.

"I hate him," Matthew says, his voice cold.

Isobel shakes her head and reaches out to her son. "Matthew, you don't..."

"I hate him," Matthew repeats again. "I hate him and his self righteous idea that anyone suffering from shellshock is just weak, and his positivity that certainly he doesn't even believe because he doesn't do a very good job of pretending, and..." he is starting to break down, his voice catching in his throat, "mostly I hate how much hate I have in my heart now."

"Oh Matthew," Mary sighs. "You don't."

"I just have this ...anger, that I don't know how to handle, and it's all I can do to not explode sometimes, and I hate it! I hate it! I hate the war and how it killed the man I once was and broke this world apart and crippled me and how it killed so many men, so many good men, and it broke so man more! How could something like that be justified! I hate it!" he shouts, his voice getting higher and higher.

Mary tries to calm him, but in some way, she thinks it may be good for him to let this out. "You're not wrong to feel that way," she says. "Your life has been torn apart by the war and I agree, and I think most people do, that it was utterly senseless and too many good men died and were broken for nothing."

"I know I'm not wrong to feel that way, but I'm certainly not reacting in the right way, am I? Not in the socially acceptable way, at least," he says. He is very measured, but there is such fear behind his eyes. "But I can't control it... I can't control anything."

He is slipping, Mary knows, and as much as she doesn't want him to, she is glad that he is at least aware of it, that he is working to control his emotions even if he can't yet. It is a step in the right direction.

But at some point, she has to let him fall.

* * *

His eyes gets blurry, the hospital examination room falling away as brown mud fills his field of vision. He shivers; he is back here.

But he is sitting, in the middle of no man's land, a sitting duck waiting to be shot at. He can't move; he is bound in my something solid, and his leg is heavy, so heavy. Panic fills his chest. There is nowhere he can go, and there is... Mary. She can't be here, they'll kill her too! They can kill him, the world would hardly be the lesser for it, but if they kill her...

He reaches for her, but she is too far. He sees the bullet, and it's as if it were in slow motion. It barrels toward her and yet it crawls. And there is nothing he can do. He screams but he has no voice.

She is so far away and yet the blood splatters on his face, in cruel irony.

* * *

"Matthew," Mary and Isobel are both saying, shaking his shoulders as he will not lift his glazed eyes to look at them. He is somewhere else, and it is terrifying.

"I can't..." his mouth manages to say. "I can't...save you."

"You don't need to save us," Mary whispers. "You've done enough, just come back home."

He fights her comforting hand, trying to pull away from the chair he is sitting in. "No, no, no!" he shouts.

Mary is very grateful that Dr. Warren is nowhere to be seen, but fear still settles into her chest. He hasn't had a flashback, not one like this, since his leg got infected.

She gets down on her knees in front of him, stares into his bright but unseeing eyes, and cups her hands around her face. "Matthew. Matthew. Look at me. Look at me."

He blinks, and he is back in the room again, although still frenzied and afraid. "Mary, you're..." he begins, shuddering.

"I'm here," she says. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head, looking almost a small, timid child.

"Let's get you back to your room, then, and you can rest."


	20. Waking

He still isn't the same the rest of the day. He doesn't smile, and his sentences are generally comprised of single word answers.

Isobel watches as Mary tends to him, not demanding conversation or explanation, but simply being by his side, silently supporting him. She had watched as she roused him out of his flashback gently; not entirely with success, but well enough that he is back with them. And she had watched as Mary and Matthew exchanged comments about books. They seemed so much like they had been before the war, and that restores to Isobel hope that she has been losing.

Isobel has known for a long time, if she admits it to herself, that they love each other. She had been doubtful of Mary when Matthew first proposed, and thought her doubts vindicated when Mary did not accept the proposal. However, when Matthew came from war, first with his fiancee on his arm and later, completely broken, she observed a very different Mary. She was surprised to see how kind Mary was to Lavinia, and how supportive she was of Matthew, even after their less than ideal split.

Now, Isobel is even more impressed. She has known ever since she saw Mary care for him at the hospital, but there is no doubt in her mind now. Mary and Matthew love each other.

Her only concern is...do they know that?

They seem to know it, subconsciously.

They just haven't shown it.

Isobel thinks back over the past few weeks. It always struck her as odd and maybe a little worrisome that they shared a room several times... That would be considered completely inappropriate were Matthew not so hurt, and even then, the arrangement is not ideal. But they did say that Mary didn't actually sleep in his room.

Although... Isobel thinks back to that morning Matthew contracted the infection. Mary had come down the stairs in nothing but her nightgown. She could have simply walked into Matthew's room after waking up, but in that case she would have at least put her dressing gown on. Isobel thinks that perhaps Mary did not keep her word that last night...

She had been so distracted by worry for Matthew that she hadn't even considered it.

What should she do? Should she force them to stay in their separate rooms? Of course, that would be the right thing to do in terms of propriety, and she doesn't want to put either of them at risk by allowing them to potentially be found in such a compromising situation, but she also knows that Matthew is telling the truth-that he sleeps much better with Mary by his side.

It doesn't matter at the moment, of course. But it is something she must consider,

She lets her gaze fall back on Mary, and smiles slightly.

Mary seems to sense Isobel's look, and turns around. "You should go back to the house; you should get a real night's sleep," she says softly.

"It's only going to be two more nights here," Isobel replies.

It's hard to tell, but Mary looks almost disappointed that Isobel will not leave. If anything, that confirms Isobel's suspicions.

"I do need to stay here," Isobel continues, and truthfully, that is how she feels. She needs to make sure that Matthew doesn't slip again. The last time she left him awake and alone... she shudders to think of it. While the fear that he will attempt to take his life again is slowly fading away, it still haunts Isobel's dreams far more than she will ever admit. And if she's honest, it helps to be in the same room as him when she's sleeping, because she can wake up from a horrible nightmare where he went through with it and can see that he is still there, alive, with her.

Mary nods reluctantly. "I would say you do need a good night's sleep in a real bed, but I understand your hesitation."

Isobel smiles. "I'm sure you do."

* * *

He opens his eyes. The hospital room should be empty, or at least nearly so, but it is full, people milling about, talking loudly. He can't make out any of their faces, but all of them feel vaguely familiar.

It is the same way with their words. He can tell they are talking about him, and he can tell that it is negative, and yet he has no idea what they are saying. This makes him stressed. Why do they all hate him so? He can give a laundry list of reasons why he hates himself, but he cannot comprehend what issues they would have.

The voices do not let up; they talk relentlessly. Matthew tries to raise his voice to interrupt, but he finds there is not much left. He tries to wave to get their attention, but he is too exhausted to move, and weighed down by something, although he cannot see anything physical weighing him down. The room is so claustrophobic. So many people are milling about, and Matthew wants to panic, but he cannot.

Finally, a face turns to him, and he recognizes it.

William.

Matthew tries to reach out for his friend, but William won't meet eyes with him. He simply casts a look of derision.

Matthew tries to ask questions, but the words will not come.

Finally, William addresses him.

"Look at you, still alive," he sneers. "First the war tried to kill you, then you tried to kill yourself, then this infection tried to kill you, and yet here you are. Lucky man. Even though you would rather be dead, you're still on earth. Wonder how it would feel."

"William, I'm..." Matthew manages to get out.

"You're quite the miracle, really. See all these people? They're astounded by you. You killed them all. You've been so close to death so many times, and yet you're still alive. Despite all the people you've killed. Interesting, isn't it? They all think so. Of course, they're not too happy about it. They don't think you deserve it."

"I know I don't..."

William disappears and reappears on the other side of the bed. "No! You don't deserve it! So why are you taking it, then? Why didn't you end it?"

"Mary," he whispers.

"Oh yes, Mary. The beautiful, incredible woman who somehow loves you. Somehow, she loves a murderer, a coward. She's got quite awful taste, wouldn't you agree?" William laughs, but it is so much colder than William's laugh was. "You don't deserve her; as scandalized as her reputation is, she is still so much better than you."

Matthew looks down. "I know she is, and I'm so lucky to be loved by her."

"You're rather lucky all around aren't you. And taking advantage of it, rather than being brave and owning up to what you've done. If you took the punishment you've managed to evade thrice, you..."

"STOP!" Matthew yells, gaining the strength in his arms to cover his ears. "I will not listen to this!"

"You should," William says, simply growing louder. "It's your only chance at redemption."

Matthew shakes his head vehemently. "No! No! I refuse to accept that! I will live, and I will live for your memory, William, because you did save my life, and for that I am very grateful, and what sort of gratitude would killing myself be? But then again, you aren't William!"

"You noticed," William says, suddenly morphing into a bigger, bulkier man. "How observant. Your skills are improving."

Matthew's heart seems to beat faster; he doesn't know what is going on.

But a firm hand on his shoulder seems to bring him back.

He opens his eyes, breathing heavily, drenched in a cold sweat. Mary is standing over him, her hair loose, her eyes frantic. "Matthew!" she whispers. "Were you having a nightmare?"

He is disoriented, but he nods. "Bad one..." he says.

"Back in the trenches?"

He shakes his head and pushes himself to sit up in bed. "No, it happened in here..."

"Can you talk about it?"

"Give me a moment."

Mary nods and sits on the edge of the bed, putting a soft hand on top of his. "Whenever you're ready."

He looks into her eyes, breathes deeply, and parts his lips. "I was in here, and there were people who I had killed just walking around in here, and then William was talking to me and telling me that I was a coward for not killing myself, but..."

"But what?" Mary asks, after a long pause.

"I think I won. A little bit."

"What do you mean by that?"

He presses his lips together and looks away from her. Maybe he sounds stupid, but he does feel like this is important. "In my dream, I recognized that William would never say those things. And I realized that killing myself would be such a dishonor to what he did for me, no matter what he said in the dream," he says.

Mary sits silently for a moment, then breaks into a smile. "That's wonderful, Matthew, really. That gives me a lot of hope."

He gazes at her, but doesn't tell her about the end of the dream before he woke up. She doesn't need to hear every detail of his nightmares.

"Sorry for waking you," he says, pushing himself back under the covers.

"No, don't worry about it. Are you going to be able to go back to sleep?"

Matthew nods.

"Good," she whispers. "Well, good night."

He smiles after her as she moves back across the room to the chair she is sleeping in. "Good night."

* * *

Physical therapy starts bright and early the next morning. Matthew isn't in the best of moods; while he was able to fall asleep after his nightmare, the sleep was fitful and he doesn't feel very rested when he wakes up.

A young woman comes in at nine, to greet a barely awake Matthew. "Morning!" she says, in an excessively cheery voice with a heavy Scottish accent. She is very slight, with a curly mass of blonde hair atop her head.

Matthew sits up straighter and groans. "Are you here to take me to therapy?" he questions. He doesn't sound too excited about the prospect.

"Yes!" She flashes another grin that is really far too wide at him, and pulls up a wheelchair. "I know it's early, but this is really the best time to do it. It will wake you up! Now, can you get in yourself or do you need help?"

"I could walk there," Matthew says with derision.

"I'm sure you could, but it's a long way across the building and then we've got to go across the grounds and to an outbuilding and Dr. Robinson wants you to be as rested as possible before you start," she says, pulling the covers aside.

Matthew sighs and carefully transfers himself into the chair. The young woman begins to push him out, and Mary makes to follow. "I'm sorry," the woman says. "Dr. Robinson requests that only patients be present for sessions unless he specifically gives permission for family to attend."

Mary looks a little bit put out, and Matthew slightly lost, but they nod their assent.

The woman begins to push him along the corridor, chatting excitedly. "I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Grace Jones, I'm Dr. Robinson's assistant. I was a nurse here but the administration said that while I had a strong work ethic, I got far too attached to patients so they were going to ask me to leave but then I asked if I could be of assistance in any way since I really do love working here and I wanted to stay on and Dr. Robinson agreed to take me on since he needed his assistant. His old one got called up to fight. He was a little hesitant to take on a woman, but I've been told I'm very bright, so I think it's working out." Her words come out as one big, excited jumble. "And you? I didn't get your name, I was just told a room number."

There is a pause before Matthew sullenly responds, "Matthew Crawley."

"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Grace says. "You're not from around here, are you? You don't sound like it, anyway."

"No, I'm not. I'm originally from Manchester," he responds. He doesn't really want to speak with her, but he supposes he must endure it, or face even further scrutiny.

"Oh, I went to Manchester once! It was on my way through to London, because I did my nurse's training in London. Now that was an adventure. But I didn't like Manchester. It was too dirty and smelly." She wrinkles her nose and turns down a hallway. "London was slightly cleaner, although there's nothing like the country. So if you're originally from Manchester, why are you here now?"

Matthew sighs and turns back to look at her. He hates talking to someone standing behind him. "I moved to a little village in Yorkshire a few years before the war but then I went off and fought and when I came back there I really needed somewhere quieter, somewhere far away, so my mother and my cousin and I came up to this place."

"Your cousin?"

"The younger woman in my room..."

Grace's eyes widen. "Oh! I thought she was your wife! I'm glad I didn't say anything about that, that would have been embarrassing."

Matthew can almost bring himself to laugh.

They have come across the grounds of the hospital; the day is peaceful, although cold. They enter a small building and wait.

Grace stops in front of a door, knocks, and gets no reply. "He's not ready yet," she says, coming in front of Matthew. "Why did you move to Yorkshire, then? That's a change from Manchester?"

He raises his eyebrows and looks away. "Well... that's a long story."

"We have time," she began, but just then the door opened and a young man hobbled out on his one leg. Matthew tries not to look away in fright, but sometimes the reminders of war were so blatant.

"I suppose I'll see you later," Grace says, as Matthew is pushed in by the doctor, who he hardly noticed as he was caught up in the other soldier. "It was nice to meet you, Matthew!"

The doctor takes him into a large room with a lot of strange and somewhat frightening looking equipment. "I apologize if Grace overwhelmed you, she's quite the character. But she does the work and does it well and without complaining, which is so difficult to find in this generation."

Matthew presses his mouth in a straight line. "It was refreshing, actually."

"Good," the doctor says. "I'm Dr. Robinson. And you are?"

"Matthew Crawley," he replies, his voice soft.

Dr. Robinson proffers a hand and Matthew shakes it, trying to give a decent handshake but feeling a sudden wave of fatigue overcome him that makes it difficult.

"Dr. Warren has briefed me on your injury, and you've got quite a bit of work ahead of you, I'm afraid. But we'll see how today goes, and after that we'll figure out some sort of routine."

Matthew nods. There are too many thoughts in his mind but he tries to push them back and focus. He misses being able to focus intently; he doubts he could ever really work again. But he pushes that thought back too.

Dr. Robinson first instructs him to sit on an elevated table, letting his legs dangle down. The temporary splint is removed from his injured leg and the doctor feels it with his hands, carefully, pausing around the place where the bullet hit. He purses his lips, and then feels along Matthew's knee. The whole process is uncomfortable to Matthew, who squirms at the idea of being touched. Except... except for Mary's touch.

"Will you bend your knee for me?" Dr. Robinson asks.

Matthew tries his best to comply, but his knee is very stiff and it hurts to bend. He finally gives up and shakes his head.

"Unsurprising, considering how torn up the ligament was," Dr. Robinson says, in a matter of fact tone. "We're going to have to work on that."

Matthew nods, but he hates how Dr. Robinson says 'work on' as if his injury is a moral shortcoming. He knows he could be misconstruing things, and perhaps it is simply a natural distrust of doctors (being the son of a doctor, he knows well that medicine cannot do everything) but he does not like Dr. Robinson much more than he likes Dr. Warren.

He is sick of being the patient, really. But he knows he must endure it, or he'll be much worse off in the long run.

"Alright. I'll have a few exercises for you do with that knee but let's see how it'll bear your weight," Dr. Robinson says, reaching out a hand to help Matthew off of the table. He hands Matthew a pair of crutches and leads him over to a set of parallel bars across the room. "I know you've been getting around with crutches, but as you try to put your weight on your other leg, you need a little more stability."

Matthew doesn't respond, but he positions himself between the bars.

"Now put down your left leg, and put as much weight on it as you can without really hurting it."

Matthew follows instructions but he has hardly shifted his weight when he starts wincing. Clearly, he's in bad shape.

Dr. Robinson does not look pleased. "Well, it's a start," he says. "Try it again."

This time, Matthew can manage a few seconds of almost normal weight-bearing, but it hurts and he is clenching his teeth and trying not to cry out in pain.

The doctor lays a hand on Matthew's arm. "It's alright, you can stop now."

Matthew breathes a sigh of relief.

The doctor instructs him to sit in a chair and has him do several other tedious, painful exercises, before observing, "You're not very talkative, are you, Captain Crawley?"

"I suppose not."

"Dr. Warren tells me you've had a hard time coming back. Well, I've seen lots of men like you, and what I can tell you is that I've found that exercise in the best remedy for that. Once they put their mind to something, once they focus on healing, everything comes together and that disturbance is gone."

This theory seems irreparably stupid, but Matthew doesn't say that. "I've never really been one to exercise for the sake of exercising," he says instead. It sounds like the right thing to say, and it is true, he has never been much of a sportsman.

"Never really cared too much about your look, eh?" the doctor jokes, his Scottish accent pronounced. He pulls Matthew's leg out and pushes it back, a painful movement.

"No," Matthew says, trying not to clench his teeth in pain and frustration. "I just did the best I could."

"Of course you did. There's men out there who will exercise for hours just to look good for the ladies, but I suppose you're not that type. Do you have a special girl, though?"

Matthew pauses, and turns away. "I don't think I can say."

"No? Well, more's the mystery, Captain Crawley."


	21. Release

Matthew is exhausted by the time the session is over, both physically and mentally. He manages not to blow up at Dr. Robinson, although the doctor's theories were not particularly pleasing to Matthew. He manages to walk slightly more normally with the crutches, although putting any weight on his damaged leg is painful and Dr. Robinson seems very disappointed with his current state.

Matthew is grateful, surprisingly, to see Grace with the hated chair; the idea of trying to hobble back to his room sounds horrible. He sits down and does not look back to Dr. Robinson. He will have to be back soon enough.

Grace comes behind him and begins to push him out the door.

She starts talking, but Matthew doesn't hear a word that she says. He presses his lips together and sulks silently, so absorbed in his own thoughts. However, hearing her talk incessantly wears on Matthew's mood. Finally, he snaps.

"Is this all you do all day? Take poor chaps back and forth and talk at them?"

He realizes what he has said as soon as it comes out of his mouth, but he does not turn around to look at Grace. He can only imagine how stricken her face looks.

"Actually," she says, her tone only the slightest bit defensive, "Once patients have been in for a few sessions, I take them through their initial exercises before Dr. Robinson comes to look at their progress."

He nods, solemnly. "That's... good."

"I think so," she says. She starts to say something, she clearly wants to keep talking, but she refrains.

He mentally kicks himself for being so rude to her. On one hand, he could blame the shellshock- why should he be able to control his speech if he clearly has no control over anything else his mind controls? But on the other hand, he doesn't want to give in. He doesn't want to be the awful person the war has shown him he can be.

"You said you've been to Manchester, so what sort of traveling have you done?" he asks. Suddenly, he finds himself faced with anxiety, questioning whether that was what he should have said. He doesn't know how to do small talk anymore; it is only Mary and Isobel he talks with, and obviously they are past that point of discussion. Otherwise, he realizes, he has been quite isolated from human contact. In a way, it is good; he would really rather not slip in front of someone he barely knew. But it also strikes him that perhaps that will make adjusting back to normal life, if there is such a thing anymore, much more difficult.

"Oh, well, London really is the furthest I've gone. My parents didn't have much so we went to Edinburgh once a year or so to visit my grandparents but otherwise we just stayed on the farm. It was awfully exciting to go to London to train to be a nurse, although it was also sad because there was so much of the war everywhere. But I did like it better than Manchester, I'm sorry to say."

"Manchester isn't for everybody," Matthew says. "But it's home, for me. Or at least it was..."

"Is Yorkshire your home now? I'd love to go to Yorkshire someday, it seems such a nice place in all the novels."

Matthew looks down at his lap. "I'm not sure, really. I have a lot of family there, and it will have to be my home one day, but I've realized that home is not really just a place, it's where your loved ones are."

"That's a lovely sentiment," Grace says. "I love it here, but part of me just wants to explore the world. But I'm the only child now, so my parents expect me to take over the farm and carry on with it, although really I'd rather nurse. I like it. Although I almost quit after the first week because one of my patients died."

Matthew isn't sure how to respond to that.

"After my brother died, my parents wanted me to come back and just work on the farm but I couldn't... there were too many memories there, and I needed a different distraction. But then it was hard to keep from getting attached, but I begged them to let me stay on, so eventually they assigned me to physical therapy."

"Where..." Matthew licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. "Where did your brother die?"

"The Somme..." she says, her voice hardly a whisper.

"Oh." He shouldn't have asked, because the response brings back horrifying images of a place he has scene, of a battle he has lived over and over again. But in a way it is comforting to know that other people are struggling with the effects of war as well. Sometimes he feels so self-absorbed in his misery that it is a comfort to him when he realizes that others also suffered because of the war.

"Were you there?"

"Yes." Matthew says, his tone hard.

"Someday I want to go to France, to see where he died. Because we never got his body back, so sometimes I still hope... and that's painful. I think going there might help me realize that he's really gone," Grace says.

Matthew would never want to go back to France, but he doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry if I'm upsetting you," she says suddenly, sounding cheerful again.

He shakes his head. "No, you're not. In fact, I'm a lot less upset right now than I usually seem to be, so there's something."

"Why's that?"

"I don't feel so alone."

Mary is very glad to see him back. He has hardly been gone for more than an hour and yet she misses him.

"How did it go?" she asks him.

He groans. "It's not going to be easy," he murmurs, as he settles back into bed. "And who knows if I'll ever really recover. Everything I tried just hurt, constantly."

"It's early days, it will get better," Mary says, sitting on the edge of his bed. It is entirely inappropriate and she doesn't care at all.

Matthew frowns and leans back against the pillows, letting out a heavy breath. "But what if it doesn't? Everyone is saying my shellshock is going to get better and we've all seen how that's worked-"

"You are getting better," Mary says firmly.

He doesn't meet her eyes. "Maybe."

"Here, it's like this," she says, taking a hand in hers. "It's two steps forward, one step back. You're making progress, it's just not as quick or linear as you would like it to be."

"Maybe it'll feel like progress when I'm not stuck here," he grumbles.

"Dr. Warren is planning to release you after your therapy session tomorrow. He says you're doing very well."

He almost laughs. "Coming from Dr. Warren, I have no idea what that really means."

"Matthew, please..." Mary says, although she silently agrees with him.

He gazes into her eyes, almost cheering up just looking at her. But a stubborn part of him is still unhappy. "I don't like Dr. Robinson."

"Why not?"

"It's stupid, it's just... I feel so judged when he's working with me. Like my injury is a result of my own failure. Which, of course, it..."

"Is not true," Mary interrupts, before he can disparage himself. Her voice is firm enough to dissuade Matthew from protesting.

"He told me that exercise is the best way to get rid of shellshock, which proves that he knows absolutely nothing about shellshock," Matthew continues, rolling his eyes. "He didn't hide the fact that he thinks I'm a failure."

Mary's heart breaks, although she knows Matthew could easily misconstrue the doctor's intentions. Still, she wants to take his side and fight for him.

"Maybe it will help. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying it's the cure to anything because clearly I know it's not, but maybe it will help."

Closing his eyes, Matthew says, "Maybe. But I'm probably beyond help."

* * *

 He does get released the next afternoon, and Mary is happy to see him like a prisoner freed. After a difficult therapy session, he seems more than relieved to step into the cool November air beside the waiting car.

He takes a deep breath and lets a smile grow across his face. "Let's go home," he says.

Dr. Warren had interrogated him before releasing him, but finally signed the papers. He didn't say anything about the shellshock, which was a relief to everyone involved. Mar had been concerned that he would have set something off in Matthew, but Matthew now seems happier than he has been in weeks.

"Home?" Mary asks.

"As home to me as anywhere is, really," he shrugs, as Shrimpie's chauffeur helps him into the car.

"That is something I'm glad to hear," she replies, climbing in after him.

Matthew remarks on several things excitedly as the car travels down the rutted lanes, and for a minute Mary lets herself think that he's so much better. But then he grows more sullen and Mary remembers that progress, like she told him, is not linear. Two steps forward, one step back. But he is making steps forward.

When they get back to the house, they eat a delicious dinner, just the three of them. It is only about five in the evening, but they are on their own time.

Matthew seems talkative and cheerful again, something that is almost miraculous. Perhaps being here, being in this house, is better for Matthew than Mary realized. But then, she thinks, this was the same house where he nearly took his own life. That thought is hard to swallow, but Mary must remember, so that she can prevent it ever happening.

"I'd like to take a bath," Matthew declares, after they eat yet another round of Daisy's delicious chocolate cake. Matthew had remarked on the meal several times, but had frozen when Mary asked if he was ready to speak with Daisy about William. Clearly some steps were yet to be taken. "I haven't had a full one since ...my last leave, really. Not with my leg and everything."

Molesley promptly goes upstairs to draw a bath.

* * *

"Could you close the door?" Matthew asks, leaning against the counter in the bathroom to keep his balance. His dressing gown is tied loosely around him, and the steam coming up from the bathtub looks very inviting.

Isobel stands in the doorway, frowning. "Are you sure..."

"I'll have Molesley help me into the tub, and I'll have the bell right near me for when I'm finished. And don't worry, there's nothing in here I can hurt myself with. The tub is too small and I'm not even flexible enough to put my head in the water once I'm in," he argues. His rationale is so logical, so lawyer-like that Isobel is almost reassured.

Almost.

"I just don't want you to..."

"Mother," Matthew interrupts, holding up a hand. "I haven't been alone in a room for weeks, since before I was in hospital. And honestly, that's been driving me crazy... as if I wasn't already crazy enough."

Isobel sighs, but is relieved to hear his dry humor, even if she doesn't appreciate his self-deprecation. "Very well. But I'll be concerned if you're not ringing to get out in an hour or so."

Matthew rings the bell in the bathroom for Molesley. "Everything will be fine," he says.

However, once he is in the bath and the door is closed, not everything is fine.

The room is small and windowless, only lit by a small gas light. The water is warm and envelops him, but the room closes in on him claustrophobically.

But he stays calm, sitting up further in the bathtub. To do this, he pushes his legs against the edge, and idea which he immediately realizes was not a good one, as any weight on his bad leg is still painful. He winces. This is the opposite of relaxing. But he has to be okay. He has to prove that he can be alone and not fall apart.

The light is the last straw.

The lamp was already flickering ominously, but it is only about five minutes in that it goes out. It is all Matthew to do to keep from screaming; he does not want to worry his mother or Mary though. So he keeps his mouth shut and tries to embrace the darkness.

He has not been alone in the darkness since the ride back from France though. He tries to suppress memories that haunt him.

He fails.

The water is suddenly cold, icy almost, and he slips down into it. It is dark, but there is a light above him. He just has to reach the light, but he is so cold and so tired, the pressure of the water over him mounting. He struggles, but no progress.

He is going to drown here in the icy water.

Next to the light, he can make out the bottom of a boat. He wants to swim up to it, but he can't move. He is too cold, and his leg hurts too badly. He is so tired, almost relaxed by the water but at the same time intensely alert.

Above is the boat, the one that is taking him across the channel. Is he going to France? Is he coming back home? He'll never know, because he is drowning in the icy waters.

He blinks and looks across from him; there is William, also below the surface, struggling to break free. Matthew wants to save him, but... there is nothing he can do. They are both stuck, drowning in the icy waters.

He screams, but no real sound comes out. Anything that does is stopped in its tracks by the seawater surrounding him.

The boat is just above him, but there is no hope.

He is drowning in the icy waters.

* * *

 

Mary hears the screaming first, and almost rushes into the bathroom. Her hand is already on the doorknob when she realizes that... she can't go in there. He's naked in the bathtub. Isobel would be furious if she walked in and Matthew would be mortified.

She wants nothing more than to go to him, but this cannot be her.

"Isobel!" she yells. She looks at the door wistfully, beginning to talk through it. "Matthew? Matthew? I'm not sure what you're thinking is happening but listen to me please. You're in Scotland, you're in the bath, and people are coming to be with you very soon."

The screaming doesn't stop.

Mary wrings her hands, unsure of what she can do. "Matthew, calm down," she says through the door. "Open your eyes, you'll find it isn't so dark after all." She glances around helplessly. "Isobel!"

Isobel makes her way up the stairs, spurned on by the anxiety in Mary's voice. "What is it?" she asks breathlessly.

"He's... he won't stop screaming, but I can't go in there," Mary whispers. "He'd be mortified if I saw him ...undressed."

If Isobel wasn't so worried for her son, she would be rather charmed by Mary's nervousness. Despite all the liberties she and Matthew have taken, Mary is still concerned for Matthew's modesty. She is right, he would be mortified, and he'd probably still be mortified with his mother coming into the bathroom, but it is better this way.

Isobel nods and carefully opens the door, sighing when she sees the unlit gas lamp. "Matthew," she whispers, "look, there's light. And I'm here. You're alright."

He gazes at her with wild eyes, unblinking. "Drowning..." he chokes out. "The ocean, it was..."

"I'm going to call Molesley up here and he's going to get you dried off and into bed, alright?"

Matthew shivers, but nods. "Could you... could you save William?"

Isobel's heart breaks for him. "No, darling, we couldn't save William. But he saved you."

He cries out, burying his wet head on her chest.

Mary listens to this and wishes more than anything that she could go to comfort him. But she can only break the rules of propriety so much, and Matthew's much better off with Isobel anyway. Or at least she tries to tell herself that.

It doesn't stop her desire to help him.


	22. Consolation

Matthew is so shaken that he lets Molesley do all the work in getting him ready for bed, something he normally resists. But he can't get the water out of his mind, can't get the image of William struggling in the sea to leave him. His mind is too occupied to even think about what is happening in the real world.

The warmth of his bed should be helpful, but the memories are too pervasive, and he cannot escape the feeling of drowning. He can't close his eyes, or he'll believe he's back in the water.

He wishes he could step back and understand why this image is so strong in his mind but even as he tries to ponder from an outside perspective, the flashback still haunts him. He tries to shut it out, but that does nothing.

Can a person drown in his own ideas? Because that's what Matthew feels like.

Mary comes in as he is trying to settle down, and sits on the edge of the bed, placing a soft hand to his cheek. "How are…"

He interrupts her. "Not good. But I'm sure you realized that already."

Mary looks at him, unblinking, and quietly nods. "You look so lost."

"I am."

"What can I do?" she asks. It's a useless question, really. She has been asking it over and over again ever since he came back, and has received no answer. Nothing but being by his side has helped.

His eyes are so cold, so blue, like the waters he fears. "I wish I could tell you that."

"I found a copy of _Persuasion_. Would you like to read it?" Distraction. That is what he needs. Otherwise he will fall into desperation.

"Would you… read it to me?"

Mary nods. "Of course."

She reads to him late into the night, hoping that he will drift off to sleep. He does not. Every time he closes his eyes, even just to listen to her dulcet tones, the waters rise and crash over him, and he is drowning again.

Eventually there's a knock on the door. Isobel peeks her head into the room. "Mary, I think you ought to get to bed."

"Isobel, I…"

"It would be better, I think, if you weren't in Matthew's room this late at night."

Matthew frowns. "I want her here. I need her here."

Isobel's eyes turn to her son, and fill with tears that have for so long gone unshed. Of course it isn't proper, especially as she's reasonably sure that they have romantic considerations for each other again, but she can't do anything that might upset the delicate balance they have tried to sustain in Matthew's life.

"I'd rather you not sleep in there, at least. And leave this door open a crack. Just to make me feel like I've done my chaperoning duties."

This almost makes Matthew laugh. "Mother, we're both adults."

"And you would never have been allowed to come up here alone, just the two of you. So you can put up with a little chaperoning."

Mary grins and closes the book. "I guess this is as alone as we'll get."

He gives her a gentle smile and grasps her hand, but he begins to hear the waves crash above him again, and his smile transforms into a dead-eyed stare. The only thing keeping him anchored to reality is her hand in his.

"Matthew?" Mary whispers, squeezing his fingers tightly. "I'm here. The water isn't real, you're on dry land."

His response is not nearly as dramatic as she expected; he stares at her blankly, then blinks and fastens his gaze into something more inquisitive. "Mary… how far are we from the ocean?"

"An hour or so, maybe?" she replies, her voice uneasy.

"Could we… go there?" he asks.

"Why? It's the middle of November, it'll be freezing."

His eyes are stormier than the ocean off the coast, but he manages to keep his voice solid. "I need to… remind myself that it's there and that I'm here on land. And that there's more than the ocean between here and France. And… I just need to be somewhere open. I spent four years outdoors and now I can hardly leave the house, and it… it hasn't been an easy adjustment, as I'm sure you can tell."

"I'm not sure what your mother would thinking about us going to the seashore in November, but I will go with you if you'd like. I hope that it will accomplish what you're thinking it will, and that it won't bring up some rather unpleasant memories, but I can see why you want to go."

He smiles. "Well, we don't necessarily have to tell her. We'll just go for my physio appointment one morning, and let her know we're off on a day trip to somewhere. She'll worry a little, of course, but we'll be back by dinner." There's a glint in his eye that she hasn't seen in a very long time.

"You're very devious," Mary says, her heart swelling at Matthew's playfulness. "Are you ready to go to sleep now?"

He begins to nod and close his eyes, but as soon as he is in the dark, the waves seem to crash over him again, and he calls out for her. "I know what Mother said… but would you stay here? At least until I'm asleep. I know it's a lot to ask and I'm disrupting your sleep but…"

"Of course," Mary says, with no hesitation. "Are you sure you can go to sleep right now?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. I need distraction. Talk to me… or maybe, would you sing to me?"

"Sing to you? I've hardly the voice for…"

He opens his eyes again and looks at her, the blue color piercing. "Remember the concert? No sound could have been more lovely. And in that case, I've nothing to contribute so all the better for helping me to sleep."

"You've got a nice voice yourself," Mary adds, although she's not sure why she's protesting this way.

"Please. It will make me happy," he says, closing his eyes and reaching for her hand.

While Mary is still insecure about her signing, especially with such an intimate audience, she acquiesces to his request. Her voice is soft, but tuneful as she begins to vocalize a familiar tune. Perhaps it is their song. After all, he had returned to her within its strains.

_Sometimes when I feel bad_

_and things look blue_

_I wish a girl I had... say one like you._

_Someone within my heart to build her throne_

_Someone who'd never part, to call my own_

_If you were the only girl in the world_

_and I were the only boy_

_Nothing else would matter in the world today_

_We could go on loving in the same old way_

_A garden of Eden just made for two_

_With nothing to mar our joy_

_I would say such wonderful things to you_

_There would be such wonderful things to do_

_If you were the only girl in the world_

_and I were the only boy._

As Mary sings the last chorus, Matthew's chest begins to rise and fall more easily. She repeats the chorus one last time to ensure that he is truly asleep before she stops. She brushes a stray hair out of his face. He needs a haircut, she observes with amusement, but she admires his sleeping face. He must have been so tired, she realizes, and yet almost unable to rest due to his recurring fears. She cannot wake him; he is still recovering and any sleep he can get is good sleep.

Carefully, she slips off the side of the bed and tiptoes across the room, taking one last look back at his sleeping form before entering her own room.

If only every distressing night could end this peacefully.

And yet, if Matthew had always had peace, she wouldn't have his love so boldly or so freely. And despite the hardship, that is one thing she cannot bring herself to regret.

* * *

The wind batters the car as the chauffeur drives it along a winding road under dark, threatening clouds. The ocean is just barely visible from the road. Matthew doesn't seem to be looking at it, though. Instead, he keeps his face trained on Mary the entire time.

Mary tries not to be disconcerted by this, but his stare is really quite intense, and he barely blinks. She finally can't stand his silent gaze, so she asks, "Is everything alright?"

"It's nice to see the world again," he says blankly.

He has been staring at Mary for the entire drive.

"I'm sure it is. How was your appointment?" she asks. She isn't sure if he'll take well to the subject, but it's worth a try.

"Miserable, unsurprisingly," he replies. His voice is devoid of any strong emotion. "The doctor is trying to get me to walk normally but with the crutches taking some of the weight off, but it's painful and he's not very kind about it."

"Maybe he's just trying to push you," Mary suggests. "Perhaps it will help you in the long run."

He finally takes a glance out the window, but his eyes soon return to Mary. "Maybe."

"You're not going to see the results you want if you don't put effort into your rehabilitation," Mary warns. She hates nagging at him but he needs to hear this and he seems to be refusing it.

"Well I don't have all that much hope it'll work out in my favor," Matthew responds.

The chauffeur pulls off to the side of the road and turns back towards Mary. "There's a path right here out to the beach, ma'am. I don't think I can drive any closer."

"Thank you," Mary says. "Matthew, are you… ready?"

"Sure," he replies. "Ready to stop being haunted."

Mary sighs. "I hope this helps, otherwise we might get a chewing out from Isobel with no plausible defense."

Matthew took his crutches and accepted the chauffeur's hand to carefully step out of the car. Mary came around on the other side and stood beside him.

"Can you show me what you've been doing?" she asks, putting a hand on his arm as he steadies himself.

Matthew frowns and looks around the empty road. "Is this really the right place?"

"We're just going to walk up this path; if you show me now, when your mother inevitably interrogates you, I'll tell her I saw and that you're doing just fine."

Matthew frowns and shifts his weight as they start up the path to the beach. He grimaces as he puts weight on his bad leg and steps forward, then pulling forward with his other leg. His steps are slow and painful, but he continues on, and Mary smiles as he does.

"You're doing so much better!" she says.

Matthew is panting by the time they reach the top of the path. "I don't feel it, but I'm glad you think so." He stops, his eyes catching sight of the ocean for the first time. He shudders, and Mary puts an arm around him to make sure he stays upright.

"Are you alright?" Mary asks.

He doesn't respond for a few seconds, but eventually nods. "Yes. Yes, I needed to see this." He places his crutches, ready to move himself forward, but they sink in the sand. "I don't suppose it'll be too easy to move any closer…"

Mary frowns. "Are you warm enough? We can sit out here for a while if you'd like, but if it's too cold…"

"No, I want to stay out here," he says stubbornly. "I lived outside for four years, a little cold can't bother me."

Mary begins to unfold a blanket she brought in the car for them to sit on top of. "That is fair, although you also recently recovered from a serious infection, so you cannot neglect your health in favor of stubbornness."

Matthew rolls his eyes as he moves slowly toward the blanket and gingerly sits down, accepting Mary's proffered hand with a reluctant sigh. Once he is seated, he seems to relax. He holds out his hand, running it through the sand.

He stares out, silent and unmoving, only running his hand across the sand beside him. Mary is slightly unnerved, but she says nothing. He will talk when he is ready to.

Eventually, he does.

"You know, lately I've felt like I've been walking on this," he says, tossing a handful of sand away from him. "Like the sands have been shifting for me, in so many aspects of my life, and I know you're trying to help me find stability and I'm so grateful for that, but sometimes it just seems impossible to find."

Mary turns her head to look at him. "The war is over now. Everything will settle down. Even your mind."

"At some point, we have to go back. To Downton. Don't we?"

Mary takes his hand in hers. "Yes. We do. But don't feel like we have to until you're ready."

"Will I ever be ready? At some point I think I'll have to dive in, or else I'll never be brave enough to go back."

Her thumb moves in circles over the back of his hand. "And if that's what you have to do, that's what we'll do. I'll be there for you. I'm afraid if we go back, however, it will be difficult for me to get away with being in your room."

Matthew laughs, his humor strained but genuine. "Now that will be unfortunate," he says.

"Honestly, I'm not sure I want to go back either."

"Because of that?" Matthew asks.

She turns away from him, closing her eyes and sucking in a deep breath. "No, because… I've been hiding. Hiding from real life, hiding from my scandal."

"Oh." He has forgotten entirely about her scandal, with his own self-absorbed thoughts lately. He forgot that she too has a struggle that she has come here to escape. "Have you heard about any of the reaction to that?"

Mary presses her lips together, still refusing to look at him. "Sybil's told me a few things. I suspect she's shielding me from the brunt of it though. So who knows what I'll face when I go back."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll be there with you, to help you face it. As much as I can. After all, it's the least I can do after everything you've done for me."

She finally turns back to him, forcing a smile. "Thank you." She pauses, her mouth slightly open, then looks at the ocean again. "You're making it sound like you want to go back."

"I want to return to normalcy eventually. And that means going back."

"When?"

He frowns. "It's almost Christmas… I don't know if I can handle being back there for all that, but also I don't want you to miss out on anything with your family."

"I would rather be here, with you, if this is where you want to be for that," Mary says.

His eyes widen. "Really? Well… I guess, then perhaps we should go back sometime after the new year. For a fresh start."

"A fresh start. I like that," Mary says. She gazes at the crashing waves, remembering why they are here. "Is this helping you? To see the ocean?"

Matthew smiles. "It's nice. It's not violent in the way I remembered. It's peaceful, in a way. But even better, I'm out here with you. That's what really helps."

Mary moves closer to him, her legs stretched out in front of her and her arm resting behind Matthew's back. "Tell me when you get cold and want to go home."

"I suppose we ought to get back soon, as Mother is going to be in quite a state wondering where we've been."

Mary nods. "Is there anything else you need to do here? To stop the nightmares?"

"Part of me wishes I could be in the water… to stand there, and not drown, but I don't think I can manage to get up there. But even this makes me feel much more at peace. To be here, with you. And to be outside. I was outside for so long, it feels so much more natural."

She stands up and offers a hand to help him up. "It's been cold lately, but perhaps if the weather turns on occasion, we can come out more."

"I would like that," he replies, trying to hide a grimace as he stands up carefully, putting some weight on his bad leg. "You know what else we should do? I'd like to go out to the village sometime, before we go home. I think it's something I need to do. I might be ready."

"Of course we can do that," Mary says, as they make their way back toward the path. "We can go out after one of your physio sessions."

Matthew takes one last glance over the berm, back at the ocean. "Someday… I need to go back to France."

"Are you sure?" Mary asks. "Would that not set you off?"

They move towards the waiting car. Matthew accepts the chauffeur's assistance to get into the car, and finally responds. "Probably now. Probably in the future too. But I need to go someday. I think it would help me reconcile…."

"In that case, whenever you feel ready, we'll go back."

Matthew raises an eyebrow. "You'll come with me?"

"If you'll have me," Mary says. "Of course I will."

He turns away from her, but his hand idly finds hers resting on the seat between them, and their fingers interlace. "Of course I'll have you."


	23. Forward

Isobel, unsurprisingly, is not pleased when Mary and Matthew finally arrive home. As soon as she hears the car pull up the drive, she runs out the door. "Where were you?" she asks, as the car doors have hardly opened. "I was worried sick, I thought you had driven off the road and were lying in some ditch somewhere and..."

Mary comes quickly around to Matthew's side of the car to stand by him as he gets out. "I'm sorry, Isobel, for not telling you, but..."

"We went to a beach. To see the ocean," Matthew says stiffly. "It was something... I needed to do."

Isobel sighs. "And why did you not think to inform me of this?"

Matthew doesn't have a good reason. He looks to Mary, but she rolls her eyes and shoots a glare back to him. Finally he stutters "I... I wasn't sure what you would think, and I didn't want to have to explain myself. So we just left, after my physio appointment."

"Well, I wish I had not been terrified for the last few hours, but I hope your little excursion proved helpful at least," Isobel says pointedly, beginning to walk towards the house.

Matthew smiles and looks at Mary. "It did, actually. It was quite helpful. I needed to be outdoors, and I needed to see the ocean and just... be."

Isobel turns around, the sarcasm and annoyance dropping from her face. Matthew seems so peaceful, so calm, so... normal. She can't complain too much about whatever he was out doing, because it seems to have helped. "I'm grateful for that," she admits.

"Do you want to talk about what we discussed at all, Matthew?" Mary asks. She puts a hand behind his back as he slowly makes his way down the gravel path, trying to walk as well as he can.

"We probably should," he says, as he lifts himself up the few steps at the front of the house. "Mother, Mary and I talked about a few things that you certainly should hear about. Should we go discuss in the library?"

Isobel's eyes widen, but she nods.

Upon seeing Isobel's face, Matthew almost laughs. "Oh, Mother, it's nothing bad, nothing at all. In fact, it may even be good." He makes his way through the library door and sits down in an armchair, pulling an ottoman closer to prop his leg on, breathing a sigh of relief. Mary and Isobel follow him in, and he waves for them to sit down. "Now I know we can't stay here indefinitely. We all have lives and responsibilities and duties back at Downton. And Mary and I discussed this, and I think I will be ready to go back. Not for Christmas, I'm afraid; that would be a rather overwhelming time to be there. But in the New Year."

Isobel gets up and moves to where Matthew is seated to grip his hand. "You're sure about this?"

"Well, nothing's set in stone and perhaps as the date approaches, I may change my mind, but... I do think I want to go back sooner rather than later."

She smiles tightly and pats his hand. "Whenever you are ready, we will go back."

* * *

That night, Mary doesn't even wait for Matthew to request her presence, neither by words or by his cries in the night. She simply pads over to his room and seats herself on the bed next to him. Naturally, he doesn't protest; instead he turns to her and smiles.

"At this point you hardly need to bother with a bedroom, since you're in here so much," Matthew says.

Mary rewards his comment with a laugh, before her smile fades and she looks past him, staring into the dark of the bedroom. "You know... when we go back, we won't be able to do this. I'm not going to be able to be in your room... in fact, we'll be at separate houses."

"That will be difficult," he admits. "I suppose at some point I'll have to practice being alone again."

"I suppose so," Mary says. Her hands idly grasp at the covers, as her gaze turns toward the ceiling.

"Mary?"

"Hmm?"

He swallows thickly, turning his head to look at her silhouette in the darkness. "Do you want to go back?"

"It doesn't matter all that much to me."

"Mary, tell me the truth," he continues firmly. "You can't protect me forever."

She doesn't move or respond, her gaze still fixed.

He sighs in frustration. "Mary. This isn't entirely about me. This can't be. I don't want it to be. If you want to stay longer, then just say something."

She shifts to her side, facing him. "Of course I want to stay longer," she whispers, her hand reaching out to touch his. "It's beautiful here, and so peaceful. No one cares about my scandal, no one cares about social convention. I can be with you. Why would I want to leave a place like this? But I know we have to. Downton is our home, and we must go back eventually. And I'm so proud and glad that you feel as if you're ready to leave this perfect little world we have. I know you're right, and I certainly won't stand in the way of that. It may not be what my heart tells me to do, but it's what logic demands. And I know it'll be for the best in the long run."

Matthew's eyes fill, from an equally full heart. "See, that's what makes me wonder if I'm making the right choice. But I need to let you and Mother live your lives, and unfortunately the real world implores all of us to join it again."

"Is this not the real world?"

He doesn't look at her. "Sometimes... I wonder. I fear that when we go back, you'll realize that nothing that happened here was really of any consequence. That... anything between us, was just a dream, a short break from reality, nothing more."

"Oh Matthew, how could you think that?"

"How could I not?" He raises his voice, before realizing the late hour. "Mary... how could you want this, want us, want me? I don't understand it logically, and while I'm grateful because I love you desperately, I'm afraid that this is all in my head. Considering lately I'm quite good at tricking myself into believing I'm somewhere that I'm not, or having conversations with people who are dead, or..."

She places a hand on his wrist to still him. "This is real. Completely real. And it will remain the same once we are back at Downton."

"Do you promise?" His voice is so soft, so vulnerable, so youthful sounding. Mary draws in a sharp breath, her heart breaking for his pain.

"I promise."

* * *

The clouds soon turn to violent rain, and the dirt roads surrounding the house turn to mud. Isobel sets down the phone, discouraged, and comes into the library where Matthew is sitting, waiting to be taken to physio. "The chauffeur can't come, the roads are too bad," she says, pressing her lips together. "He says he'll try to come out for your next appointment, but if the rain doesn't let up, he still might not be able to."

Matthew puts down the book he was reading and sighs. "Alright. I guess I'll call the hospital and let them know I won't be there."

"You want to do that?" Isobel says, raising her eyebrows.

He shrugs and grabs his crutches to begin to heave himself off of the couch. "It's my appointment. At some point I've got to stop letting you do everything for me."

What he says shouldn't be offensive. It's not wrong either, really. But Isobel feels her stomach drop as he says it. Maybe, someday, he won't need her at all. That's a good thing, but Isobel feels hurt nonetheless.

It isn't Matthew's fault, she reasons. It's her own desperate need to be needed. As devastating as the war has been, it's given her a new sort of purpose. And she is almost hesitant to lose that, even if it means that he is getting better.

She almost lost him... now she is afraid that she will lose him.

To lose him to independence would not be so bad. But her heart aches to think that someday, she will not be needed anymore. Not by him, not when he has a wife to love him and care for him.

For she is certain that his growing closeness with Mary will lead to something more.

He comes back in from the telephone, a slight smirk on his face. "They've rescheduled today's appointment to next Tuesday, so I'll have an extra next week if I can handle it. Hopefully the roads should be better by then."

As he gently lowers himself to the sofa, Isobel pads over to him slowly. "I'm proud of you."

"I made a phone call," he says, shrugging. He lets a few minutes of silence pass before sighing, "I suppose I couldn't have done that a month, maybe even a week ago."

Isobel smiles and rubs him hand. "You're getting better."

"Usually, I struggle to believe that. And while this seems a relatively minor improvement, I'm inclined to agree that yes, I am getting better," he replies.

* * *

The rain still lashed against the windows late into the afternoon. Bored and tired, Matthew had gone upstairs for a nap, while Isobel was puttering around downstairs, writing letters, reading, and tidying up what little there was. She hasn't seen Mary since luncheon, either. Perhaps she, too, is taking a nap.

It has been three hours since Matthew went upstairs, and Isobel begins to wonder if he really has been sleeping this whole time. She might not have thought about it if she had not been so bored, but with the rain keeping them housebound, there seemed to be little of interest to do. Perhaps it was better, that Matthew had suggested going back soon. Back at Downton, at least, she will have other things to distract her.

Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she ascends the stairs with less of a sense of determination than a sense of resignation, that perhaps it is her duty to check on her son.

His door is mostly closed, but through a slight crack, Isobel can witness what is occurring inside. This immediately comforts her; they are not trying to hide from her. And what she sees comforts her even further.

Matthew stands just a few feet from Mary, leaning heavily on a cane, an implement he had just begun to use in his last few therapy sessions. His steps are slow and he grimaces with each one, but nonetheless, he takes steps, real steps, towards Mary. With each step he takes forward, she takes a step back, and in this way Matthew is nearly across the room in a few minutes. It is slow going, for sure, but it is much better than it has been, and Isobel can see this on his face. He looks exhausted and in pain when he finally reaches Mary, but a wide grin spreads across his face as he drops the cane and puts his hands in Mary's.

"Look at you!" she says joyously, pulling his hands to her chest in excitement. "I knew you would make it."

He closes his eyes in relief. "It's a shame I can't have you as my therapist," he says, laughing. "Much more encouraging than Dr. Robinson."

"Yes, I'm sure kisses from Dr. Robinson would not be nearly as enticing," Mary jokes, as she moves with him slowly to the nearby bed and helps him sit down.

"No, not nearly," he replies as he tugs on her arm, guiding her to sit very close to him on the edge of the bed. "Now, about that enticement you offered..."

"You're saying the joy of your success in recovery today was not enough?" she says, raising an eyebrow.

"Hmm... I'm afraid I'm much more interested in other things at the moment," he murmurs, taking a hand to gently place on her cheek.

Isobel turns away from the door. She has seen enough. She has seen enough to know that her son is happier and healthier because Mary is with him, but she also figures that they would not want her to intrude on their private moment.

He will be alright. They will alright. And it is best not to intrude on something that is taking a good turn.


	24. Panic

The rain stops and the roads clear in a few days, although Matthew has missed two sessions of professional therapy. He would say that his impromptu sessions with Mary were perhaps even more helpful, but she cannot make any sort of claim toward that. However, she is thrilled to finally be invited to attend one of his actual therapy sessions.

Mary takes a seat against the wall in the large therapy room after making sure that Matthew is ready. He sits on a table, wearing a short sleeved shirt and shorts that reveal much of his legs. Mary notes, with a sly grin, that if she had been at Downton that sort of clothing would have been absolutely unacceptable. She loves it here, she loves the freedom that she has to simply be. How she will handle being back at Downton she doesn't know. It seems unimaginable, to go back to how things were before. As much as she loves Downton, Scotland has been the escape she so desperately needed, and Mary isn't ready to leave that. But if Matthew is ready, then she must be too.

The door from the office opens, and out comes Grace, wearing her usual cheery grin. Mary instinctively recoils at her cheerfulness, as it seems so out of place, and perhaps damaging to Matthew, but Matthew does not seemed too disturbed. He returns her smile, though hesitantly.

"I've got some good news for you, Matthew, or I hope it's good news. Dr. Robinson has allowed me to work with you on your exercises before he comes out to examine you!" Her eyes are wide as she approaches Matthew. "You're the first patient I've been allowed to do this with, but don't worry, I've been well trained."

Matthew raises his eyebrows, both bemused and unsure. "Well... I'm glad you've gotten promoted," he says. "Grace, is it alright if my cousin joins us in that case? Dr. Robinson said she would be allowed in at this session." He gestures to Mary sheepishly.

Grace turns around to flash a smile at Mary. "Of course! I wouldn't want to renege on his promise. Especially for you. Lady Mary, correct?" she says, screwing up her face in an attempt to remember Mary's name.

Mary is surprised at the use of her title, and even more confounded at her own surprise. Here in Scotland, with just Isobel and Matthew, title and rank do not matter, and Mary almost finds herself uncomfortable at being addressed in such a way, as if the formality has forced its way into quiet Scotland. She expects it from the doctors and such, but for some reason, in that moment, she hates it. Perhaps because it is a reminder of what she has to go back to. "Yes, but feel free to simply call me Mary."

Matthew raises an amused eyebrow at this unusual behavior.

"If you say so," says Grace, a little reluctantly. Clearly, she's cowed by the nature of Mary's title and station. "Say, I think that I've read of you somewhere, sometime in the paper."

Mary's face immediately pales. Images of Richard, his cold rejection of her plea, her despair that night as terrible news after terrible news flood her, flit across her mind. I deserve this, she tells herself, again. It is the only way she can handle it.

Matthew seems to recognize Mary's embarrassment and fear at Grace's question, and quickly speaks up to try to defuse the situation. "Do you read the Court Circular? Because occasionally you may see Mary's name in there. I can't imagine why you would have heard it otherwise."

Grace presses her lips together. Mary isn't expecting her to buy the excuse, but she murmurs, "Perhaps that is it. I must have flipped through a copy in the waiting room at some point, and the name stuck with me." Mary breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps her scandal has reached Scotland, but few will connect her to the scandal. Aristocratic dealings are likely not of interest to most of the people here, and Mary is grateful for that.

However, her heart still beats rapidly, and her breath comes out harder than she intends it too. How can she go back? How can she be back in a place where everyone knows her identity and her failings? As remote and quiet as Scotland is, something she never thought she would enjoy, she would much rather be here then back in the world she grew up in. She can hardly fathom facing up to everyone back home, to know that they know of her shame.

Yet Matthew says she has nothing to be ashamed of. She's grateful to him for it, but that is not how the world works, or at least not her world. Whether the subject feels the guilt or not scarcely matters; it is the shame that everyone else believes they should possess that determines ruin. And by that standard, Mary is certainly ruined. It matters not that Pamuk coerced her; Richard spun her story to make her appear unmistakably at fault. She is damaged goods, whether she deserves it or not.

But she deserves it, doesn't she?

* * *

It takes all of Mary's strength not to leave the room, because she knows that Grace has read the story, and at some point will make the connection. But she will stay, for Matthew's sake. Matthew asked for her to be here, to see his progress, and while Mary does not consider herself a particularly selfless person, for Matthew, she will be.

She tries to focus on watching him, on seeing how he is coming along, especially compared to what they had worked on those rainy days. And she's happy to see the results. Grace first works with him on some exercises while he is sitting down, and Mary notes that his leg bends more readily than it did before. He doesn't protest at any of the exercises, although he keeps looking to Mary for assurance, and participates much more eagerly at her slight nod and smile.

Mary also notices how Grace acts around him; even more than her bubbly personality, she almost seems to be flirting with Matthew-attempting to get him to laugh with her, touching him in more places than would seem strictly clinical. Her light giggles, well-intentioned though they might be, set Mary on edge. And Matthew plays along. He smiles back at her, laughs at her jokes, closes his eyes at her touch and never frowns at the contact.

"You've improved quite a bit since I last saw you," she said, even such a simple phrase sounding syrupy sweet. "Soon you won't be needing to come here anymore. Which is an excellent development for you but will be quite disappointing for me."

Matthew presses his lips together in a soft smile. "Well if it's so awful, perhaps I might stick around a little longer."

"Dr. Robinson may not be so fond of that plan but as I've hardly had another patient like you, I wouldn't be of a mind to argue," she replies, as she lifts his leg to straighten it one more time.

"I'm likely leaving for Yorkshire in the new year," Matthew warns, as Grace instructs him to stand up, still leaning against the table where he had been sitting.

Grace helps him into another stretching position before giving him an exaggerated frown. "That's a shame, I do so hate to see my favorite patients go. And you and I've, we've so many things we've yet to talk about, so many things we've yet to do."

He responds to her with an indulgent grin, and Mary can't help but bite her lip. Does he not notice what she is really saying, how obvious she is about her feelings? Is he really so oblivious? Matthew is so clever, he cannot possibly miss the signs of Grace's affections.

Mary tries to shake of the pangs of jealousy she feels. Is this all it takes to make her desperate for his exclusive affection? It's certainly harmless, a professional relationship, she attempts to convince herself. How stupid, how immature of her it is to feel this way. And yet, every vaguely flirtatious words sets her teeth on edge.

Of course, it doesn't help that her scandal has been burned afresh in her mind. Even up here, in this quiet, isolated Scottish village, she is not free of it. She will never be free of it. And if she continues anything with Matthew, he will never be free of it either.

So perhaps it is better that she does not tie him down.

Of course, all of her thinking is extremely premature, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she acknowledges that. But her own self-loathing allows her to believe that perhaps Matthew is not so in love with her as she thought. After all, with her scandal lurking, how could he want to take her on.

It always comes back to Pamuk.

I deserve this, she thinks, closing her eyes so she doesn't have to witness another flirtatious gesture. I deserve this.

* * *

Mary is uncharacteristically quiet on the way back from the hospital, Matthew notices, her lips pressed together in a firm line and her eyes staring at nothing in particular. It was a rather successful session, as once Dr. Robinson came in to work with him, he managed to walk all the way across the room with nothing but the support of a stick. Mary had given him an encouraging, if distracted smile, but she had not been particularly engaged. It must have been boring for her, he reasons; it can be tedious enough for him, so watching his exercises cannot be all that thrilling.

And yet, usually when she comes with the chauffeur to pick him up from physio, she is cheerful and talkative; maybe it's a facade to help him become more cheerful and talkative, but nevertheless, her current attitude is unsettling.

"You know, in just a few weeks it will be Christmas, and I've hardly even thought about buying gifts. Perhaps we need to go out to the village and find something for Mother," Matthew says, trying to inspire conversation. "Although I suppose we'll have to separate if I'm to find any sort of surprise for you."

"Hmm," is Mary's only response. She stares out the window, not having heard him.

Matthew frowns and looks away, waiting a few minutes before trying again. "You know, I think we have a storm coming. Ever since I got hurt, I seem to be able to tell when the weather's about to change."

Mary still gives no meaningful response.

He doesn't try to speak again for the rest of the drive back to the house.

Dinner is awkward; Mary is abnormally quiet still, and Matthew finds himself anxious to keep up a conversation that he hardly cares about. His mind is more focused on Mary, and what could have happened to upset her.

He thinks about the session, but frankly, he hardly remembers what Mary might have said, or what he might have said to upset her. In truth, his sessions of physio all seem to blend together, with little separating them. The only unique thought of this one he can manage to remember is Grace's help with his exercises at the beginning, and even then, he had been so intently concentrated on his movement that he cannot now pinpoint anything in particular. The hours of sweat and hard work and pain that came after were enough to make anything earlier in the day feel like a fantasy. Perhaps he is only imagining Mary's frustration at him; after all, he seems to have hallucinated plenty of other fantasies in the past.

Isobel notices the odd tension at dinner, but she does not say anything. She's enough used to Matthew's sullen days that the quiet at the table does not seem unfamiliar. If it does not resolve itself, of course she will interfere, but she fears interference will do little good.

* * *

Everything in the house is stilted and quiet, and all three go to bed early, perhaps in the hopes that the awkwardness will dissipate.

It takes Matthew only minutes to realize how much he needs Mary by his side.

She has not come in, and he already misses her. He lays back and tries to sleep, but five minutes in, he realizes it will be futile. It is silent, too silent, without Mary's breathing next to him, and the silence only makes him fear any sound that might come from the night. He has grown accustomed to not being alone, and now he almost is afraid of loneliness.

It is probably only ten minutes he spends in the dark, but it is more than enough for him to throw off the covers in frustration and sit up. He needs Mary, and he can't think what might be keeping her. He reaches for his cane, propped against his bedside table, and slowly, carefully walks toward the door connecting the two rooms.

* * *

Mary has a book open on her lap, but she can not bring herself to really read it. The afternoon keeps playing over and over again in her head; the mention of her scandal stinging every time, and the idea of Matthew in love with another hurting her heart, although the existence of such a heart may be debatable.

It is awfully harsh, Mary thinks, to have her scandal dragged up when the very thought of Pamuk causes her heart to beat with anxiety. Her own private fear has also made her the laughingstock or horror of English society. And yet, how can she complain? She deserves this, doesn't she? Or at least she tries to tell herself that.

She picks up a book that is sitting next to her bed, but she hardly can read it. All she can think about is Pamuk, his dark eyes and intense, unforgiving state, as he entered her room all those years ago. She should have screamed, and yet the scream that she never managed to let out does not leave her head now. Would it have been better? Would it have prevented her heartache?

Maybe... maybe if she could have sent Pamuk away, she would be less broken.

There is little help in dwelling on the past, and yet Mary cannot help but wonder. And now with her scandal out there again, the past will not leave her alone. There is nothing she can do but watch as the past defines her in the eyes of society. She has nothing anymore; she is nothing. And all because she was stupid enough to let a man into her bed.

The door to her room opens and suddenly, she is transported back to that night, where he came in without any regard for her modesty. Mary takes in a quick breath and closes her eyes, trying not to allow her anxiety to overtake her. Naturally, she pulls her covers around her, in some sort of attempt to protect her modesty, what little remains of it. She closes her eyes, so afraid that when she opens them, he will be there, with his awful grin and seductive voice and dark, deep eyes that sometimes make their way into her nightmares.

A hand on her arm attempts to draw her out of her fright, but Mary curls up further into a ball instinctively, unable to find any other way to protect herself.

"Mary," a voice says, but it is not Pamuk's.

Only now does Mary realize she is on the ground, huddled against her bed, her covers around her. She opens her eyes, and sees a clear blue staring back at her, and she is overwhelmed with relief, although she still labors to breathe, the intensity of her fear taking some time to dissipate.

Matthew is crouching down next to her, clearly in pain from the position, but determined to confirm that she is alright. "Mary, get up. The floor won't do you any good." It hits him that despite how many times he's been coaxed out of similar states, he has no idea how to do the same for Mary. He will try everything, though; he owes that to Mary.

She blinks and looks up at him, so grateful that his light features are nothing like Pamuk's. It's a strange point of relief, but his ocean blue eyes convince her that Matthew is unmistakably himself, not some echo of the man who came to her room years before.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she murmurs, pushing herself up from the floor and attempting to regain some composure. Really, she would rather stay curled up in a ball for eternity, as standing makes her feels rather exposed and her heart still has refused to stop racing, but she has always prided herself on keeping control of her emotions, and she will not let anything stop that. Besides, she cannot bear the sight of Matthew crouching beside her, clearly uncomfortable, so she holds out a hand for him to get up from the ground.

He stumbles over to hold onto the bedpost, stopping to gaze at her. "Mary, are you sure you're..."

"Go," Mary whispers. "You shouldn't have come in here." Because really, that was what made her so afraid. A man coming into her bedroom. That was what had started everything, that was her eternal shame. How could Matthew even think to...

He looks at her with nothing but understanding. "I'm sorry," he says softly, reaching toward her. She pulls away from him.

"I think I need to be alone," she says. In truth, his presence would be rather comforting, had his actions not just set her into a panic. She wants him here, so desperately, but she cannot abide his entrance into her bedroom. For her, there is something so fundamentally wrong about it; after Pamuk, she cannot see such an uninvited entrance from a man as anything but wrong.

Matthew nods, but he is slow to make a move to leave. He keeps looking at her, wistfully, mournfully. He begins to walk toward the door, but he hardly takes two steps before almost stumbling and stopping, making a pained face. "Mary, will you hand me my stick?" he asks, motioning to the floor where he had been crouched beside her.

Mary wordlessly picks up the stick and hands it to him, her arm brushing his. She pulls away again, taking in a sharp breath. It is nothing but wrong to her.

He limps through the door to the other room, taking one last look back at her. "Mary, if you need me... I will be here for you."

She hates feeling so weak, so needy, and she can hardly bear to look at him in response. She deserves this, she deserves the hell she has brought upon herself, and she certainly does not deserve Matthew's kindness.

The door closes softly behind him, and she sits on the end of her bed and sobs until she has no tears left to cry.


	25. Vulnerability

Sleep is nowhere near for neither Mary nor Matthew that night. 

Matthew lies down on his bed, his leg and his heart both aching. Should he have stayed? Mary didn’t want him there, but she had never so easily abandoned him… To see her in such a state was more terrifying than his own horrifying flashbacks. Mary had always been so calm, so collected, so even-tempered, and so brave that he can hardly believe she could feel the same sort of fear. What was it? What set her off? He tries to think back to the events of the day, cursing his forgetfulness and obliviousness. After all these months of attempting to suppress memories, he suppresses them far too easily.

Mary had not spoken much, aside from the beginning. When had she gone quiet? He remembers introducing Mary to Grace, and then having to mention… the magazine. Deflecting the attention away from Mary’s scandal. How could he have forgotten? Of course that would be difficult for Mary to hear.

In some ways, Matthew thinks, Mary is just as haunted by her past as he is; she is simply much better at hiding it.

His heart breaks for her. For so long, she has been strong for him, and he could not even manage to return the same courtesy to her. He wants nothing more than to go to her, to be there for her as she was for him, but he fears upsetting her further. And yet… it does no good for her to be alone.

He is paralyzed by indecision, unable to find the will to disturb her again but desperately wishing to be able to comfort her in whatever caused her distress.

They could not have been more than ten meters apart, and yet the chasm between him and Mary feels uncrossable. At least… he feels that he cannot cross it.

* * *

Mary does not even bother to lie down, for she knows that sleep will not come. Part of her feels horribly embarrassed, to have broken down like that, to have allowed Matthew to witness it. And yet, part of her wishes that he had not listened to her so well, that he had not left. If anything, it may comfort her to have him beside her.

Is she too proud? Is she too afraid? Is she utterly incapable of being vulnerable? Perhaps that is her failing; she can never ask for help because she would rather everyone think she needs no help.

But why should that apply to Matthew?

She is torn between wanting him desperately and feeling an irrational anger toward him: an anger for his flirting, or at least for his acquiescence towards flirting, an anger for his intrusion that frightened her so, an anger towards him for being so perfectly gentle and understanding as she broke down. That is not how it is supposed to be; she is supposed to be the one caring for him, bringing him out of his deepest fears. Hasn’t he suffered far more than she could ever imagine? And yet, he must save her from her own memories? Mary cannot abide the thought. She deserves this, doesn’t she? It shouldn’t be Matthew’s responsibility to pick her up from the mess that she created. And she hates him for being so willing, so glad, so open to her regardless of her past.

And yet, she needs him. Desperately. This is something she cannot deny. And he wouldn’t mind, really. Why else would he have come into her room before? Matthew would never intentionally do something like that to frighten her. So as awful as it makes her feel, to be needy, she will indulge herself.

She probably will not sleep tonight. But she’ll be much happier by his side.

* * *

Mary knocks on the door before opening it- not knocking was probably Matthew’s biggest mistake just hours before- and enters the room, eagerly. He is lying down, but clearly not asleep either. His bright eyes find her as she enters, but he can barely get a few words out before Mary is on the other side of the bed. She leans down to kiss him. She has no words, only the movement of her lips on his. She prays it is a language he understands.

Matthew raises his eyebrows in surprise at the first contact, but his initial surprise melts away as Mary continues, desperately, frantically, and Matthew cannot help but sink into her touch, anything he wanted to say melting away in comparison to her soft lips. He never wants it to end, this blissful touch, but he also doesn’t understand.

He only understands when he feels her hot tears on his cheek.

“Mary, Mary,” he whispers, still in contact with her lips. He puts his hands on her shoulders and carefully guides her to lie down next to him, although her head lands on his chest. “I’m…” he begins, and his tongue falters without the words to comfort her. Perhaps his tongue speaks more intelligently when in contact with hers, for in that one kiss, she communicated to him so much more than he can even comprehend in that moment; her world of pain, her affections, her desperation, her need for love.

Mary doesn’t say anything. She blinks back the tears that seem to be escaping her rapidly and listens to his heart beating in his chest; she can hear the rhythm accelerate. Even before, they had never quite been as close, as connected as this. But she needs it, she cannot move from him. His arm comes around her shoulder and she reaches her hand up to clasp his, taking comfort from the squeeze he gives her.

There is nothing but the sound of their breathing, Mary’s choked and labored from the tears spilling from her eyes, Matthew’s calmer, but still struggling to keep consistent pace. 

Finally Mary, her voice thick, murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Matthew replies quickly.

“I feel…” Mary licks her lips and turns her head so she faces away from him, unable to look him in the eye. “I feel absolutely ridiculous for what happened back there, and that must have disturbed you so for something so stupid, and then I mistreated you and I… I saw Pamuk… it was a moment of weakness, but I promise I won’t…”

“Mary, Mary,” he whispers, craning his neck to kiss the top of her head. “You are not weak, or stupid, or ridiculous. Not by any stretch of the imagination. How many times have you seen me in a similar state? For God’s sake, you had to stop me from…” his voice falters, unable to speak out loud the darkest moment of his life. He blinks and turns his head away as well, swallowing as if it could rid him of the memory. “Anyway, you have no reason to be ashamed. If anyone understands, it would be me.”

Mary presses her lips together and sighs. “You went through so much more, though, and your fears and memories are justified and understandable. They have a clinical diagnosis for your reaction to what you have suffered; your reaction, while perhaps difficult for yourself, has a recognizable basis. What about me? A man comes into my room, which shouldn’t have been a shock after I so brazenly flirted with him, and years later I break down in response to anything even vaguely similar. You must admit, that is rather ridiculous.”

“My darling,” he replies, the term of endearment rolling of his tongue more easily than he ever could have expected, “you suffered trauma. Different than what I experienced, yes, but trauma all the same. You were young and naive, and a man took advantage of that and let you blame yourself for years, and now the tabloids blame you, and on top of it, you carried his dead body across the house which would disturb any human with feeling. To have that all dragged up again… You are not unjustified in your reaction. You are a human, and your heart has been damaged, and some people seek to use your brokenness for their own gain which only makes things worse, and you do not deserve this.”

Should this be a relief for Mary to hear? It goes against everything she has been telling herself for the past months, everything that she has tried her hardest to believe. “Matthew, you don’t understand, I didn’t tell Pamuk…”

“You do not deserve this,” he interrupts, repeating himself more firmly.

_I deserve this. I deserve this._ Mary’s own words of attempted consolation fill her head. She begins to feel numb. She must be numb, or she will break down again, and that she cannot allow. The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley does not cry. “You mistake me. I don’t have a heart to be scarred.” She pulls away from Matthew, unable to keep touching him and still believe what she must believe in order to stay numb.

Matthew tries to reach out for her, but she pulls away. “Mary,” he says, his lips struggling to say something that will help, only able to make her name come. He sighs heavily and tries to turn on his side to be closer to her, but such a position is too uncomfortable for him to hold. “Mary, I know it’s hard for you to admit you’ve been a victim. You want to believe that you alone are responsible for your fate. But there are so many things outside of our control. The war was outside of our control, societal expectations are out of our control, even the coming storm is out of our control. And when we are not in charge, we can easily become victims. I am a victim of the war. It broke me, physically and mentally, and the mental damage is far harder to accept because I’d like to believe I’m entirely in control of my mind. But I’m not, not always. I probably never will be. And now that I’m starting to accept that, it’s getting better, little by little. I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve to be haunted by the things I’ve done and the things I’ve seen. I’ve killed, yes, I’ve done awful things, but I was a pawn in a bigger scheme, never acting of my own free will. I would never… none of that I would choose to do. My trauma is not direct punishment for what I’ve chosen to do, for I lacked control of the circumstances. What could I have done? Stayed home and been labeled a traitor and coward, which is damaging in its own right, or rebelled and been shot by my own men? No, I had to do what I had to do in France, and now I’m living with the consequences that maybe I don’t necessarily deserve. I was a perpetrator of a pointless war and yet… in some ways, I’m a victim of it. And if I can justify a semblance of innocence after all this—and Mary, I’ve killed men like me, or men with families, with children, and that is still weighing on me heavily—then you can do the same.”

Mary turned over onto her stomach, her breaths shallow, to look him in the eye. “Oh Matthew, you…”

“You were a victim of a cruel man who had no regard for your reputation, your modesty, and your heart. You could not have stopped him from coming to your bedroom, and from what you’ve told me and what I know of the house, you could not have easily sent him away if he was not willing to go. That in itself is a violation, and then to violate your body…”

“Matthew, please,” Mary whispers, cringing. “Don’t… don’t speak anymore. I can’t relive it, I just can’t…”

He acquiesces, closing his mouth. He brings a hand to her back and rubs it comfortingly. “You don’t deserve this. You are justified in any brokenness you might experience. We are not that different in that, you and I.”

Mary is silent for a long moment, taking in the feeling of his hand over her back. This is so much to process, so much to take in, and even despite his words, her old self chatters in the back of her mind. _I deserve this. I deserve this._

But, Mary reasons, Matthew understands her in this better than anyone. He didn’t know all the details of the incident and perhaps he still doesn’t, but his faith in her innocence in the matter almost makes her believe it. She buries her face in the pillow, unwilling to reveal again the tears that prick at her eyes. He rubs a gentle hand on her back, and while at first she instinctively wants to pull away, still shaken from her intrusive memories and afraid of any sort of intimacy, she relaxes into his touch. It is pure and gentle and so Matthew… no other man could comfort her in this way.

Finally Mary looks up from the pillow, hoping her emotions are under control. “You seem so confident in all of this,” she whispers. “I’m envious of your faith.”

Matthew shakes his head. “Not at all. This is what you’ve taught me, I’m simply relaying the message back to you.”

“The student has become the teacher then,” she remarks, trying to sound flippant, although the feelings coursing throughout her are anything but.

“I suppose so,” he replies.

Mary closes her eyes and expels a breath. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was a victim. Maybe I don’t deserve this after all. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I do.”

“It takes time.” He shakes his head and laughs, although there is little humor behind the sound. “It takes months and months of convincing, and even then, you’re still broken from everything. But maybe… maybe you can become less broken.”

She reaches out for his hand. “Less broken, hmm? That’s better than nothing.”

“For me, at least, it’s been everything,” he whispers. “I’m alive today because of you, and I can never repay that debt. The least I can do is be there for you, especially since I’ve frightened you so.”

Mary shakes her head. “No, no, don’t be sorry for that. I should have expected you to come in.”

“I was wondering why you hadn’t bothered to come to me, what I had done to make you so put out with me. I suppose now it makes more sense; what Grace said about your story must have been difficult to…”

A hearty laugh escapes Mary’s lips. “Oh Matthew, no, that wasn’t…”

“What then?”

“Oh God, Matthew, I… I was mad because Grace was flirting with you, and you seemed to respond so positively to it,” Mary says, a little sheepish but also amused.

Matthew raises his eyebrows. “Was she really? Oh Mary, I never would have… you know I love you and only you. I can’t say I noticed her flirting, I thought she was just being friendly, you know…”

“You are the most oblivious man I have ever met,” Mary teases, rolling over again onto her back with a grin. “Of course she was flirting with you, how could you have missed it?”

He shakes his head. “I… I don’t understand. Why would she even want to?”

“Why wouldn’t she? You’re intelligent, charming, lovely to talk to, and probably one of the most handsome men she’s seen in a while. And you’re genuinely kind even in the midst of everything, a trait that many lack. There’s no reason a woman wouldn’t want to flirt with you… although I rather prefer to have you to myself.”

This is apparently news to Matthew. “I never thought… I can’t believe, even after everything she saw with my shellshock and all… Mary, you clearly overestimate my charms.”

Mary rolls her eyes, but she cannot hide a smile. “Are you saying I have bad taste?”

“Oh Mary, I just… after Lavinia, I never thought I could be with anyone,” he says quietly. “I never thought anyone would want to be with me again. So I guess any attention like that is completely foreign to me at the moment. But I hope you weren’t jealous.”

“Me? Jealous? Of course I was, why else would I have avoided you so. I probably had no right to be, we’ve no formal standing, but…”

“Are we in need of formal standing?” Matthew interrupts.

Mary shrugs, pushing up further on the pillows. “Eventually, don’t you think? Is that not where we’re headed, toward marriage? Of course if you want to explore other more lucrative prospects, I would understand, although I would be heartbroken, but of course I’m damaged goods so… Matthew?”

He has frozen up at the idea, his eyes glassy and watery, staring at the ceiling without any mercy. His lips work, trying to speak, but nothing comes out.

“What’s wrong?” Mary whispers, afraid that he has gone into a flashback again.

He blinks, staring up at her. “It’s just…” he starts, finally, “it’s just, the idea of marriage is so hard for me to comprehend at the moment. I was ready to marry Lavinia and you saw how well that worked. Mary, I love you, and I want you to someday be my wife, don’t worry about that, but I need more time.”

Mary tries to understand but now that the idea has been suggested, she suddenly wants nothing more than to marry Matthew, right in the moment if necessary. A marriage would dismiss many of the brutal rumors surrounding her, and it would allow them to be together whenever they wanted, and it would confirm to the world what they both knew to be true. But if Matthew wasn’t ready… “Why do you say that?”

“For one, your lot requires a huge wedding ceremony, and I’m afraid I’m not up for that. I would almost certainly break down in front of that sort of crowd. For another… as much of my life as I’ve shared with you, I hate the idea of tying you down with me when I'm still struggling so much. I believe I’ll continue to improve, but I really do need time for that to happen. I can’t explain all of why I need to take my time, as I hardly understand most of my feelings, but can you bear with me?”

Mary presses her cheek to his. “I’ll wait,” she whispers into his ear. “After all, it’s not as if I have many offers forthcoming.”

“I’m sure you could find someone else. Go to America, find a group of millionaire single men, I’m sure at least three of them would fall head over heels for you,” he jokes.

“Why? How would you know that? Do you believe a man in possession of a great fortunemust be in want of a wife?”

He smiles, the tension from a moment ago relieved in a way that only their shared love of literature can do. “Not necessarily, but I do happen to know how thoroughly enchanting you are, and I cannot imagine that any man would not fall immediately in love with you.”

Mary rolls her eyes, but they crinkle up in silent laughter. “I could say the same about you. No wonder you’ve had your share of female attention.”

“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry about that, I didn't even realize or understand and… I’m an idiot. A proper, oblivious idiot.”

“I won’t dispute that, but I must say, it’s rather charming on you. Even though I didn’t appreciate it today. But now we can laugh about it. It’s alright.”

Matthew closes his eyes. “Is it? Sometimes, I feel like after everything, it’s wrong to find humor in such things, when the problems of the world seem so much bigger. I think about how so many were robbed of the opportunity to ever smile or laugh again. The hard things seem to overwhelm the few good.”

“You must laugh. For them, for all of them who don’t get the opportunity. Don’t waste your life because they no longer have theirs; to do so would be disrespectful. Smile, laugh, be happy. Allow yourself to be happy. You’ve been punished enough; you’re right to find joy in the small things,” she says.

“And you’re right to feel like a victim, to feel hurt for what happened to you, to feel like you don’t deserve it,” he replies, holding her gaze.

“I suppose we both still have some learning to do.”

Matthew bites his lip. “We do.”

“But we also have…”

A sudden flash lights up the room, and Matthew freezes instantly. Mary drops off the end of her sentence to reach for his hand, knowing what is about to come. As the thunder rolls a few seconds later, she squeezes his hand tightly, trying to distract him.

He shakes for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open and his eyes staring at the ceiling, then squeezing shut, trying to avoid the memories. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, hardly breathes. Another flash of lighting brightens the room, and Mary can see how terrified he is. His mind is not in Scotland.

As the thunder sounds again, Mary instinctively leans toward him. Maybe she just wants to guard him from his fears, or maybe she believes that being close to him will allow him to remember where he is.

Inevitably, however, her lips end up touching his. She wasn’t planning on kissing him, and as soon as she realizes what she is doing, she pulls away from him. How does she know he would want this? She may traumatize him further. She knows the feeling of an unwanted kiss.

But Matthew opens his eyes, and in another flash of lightning, she sees his tears but also his desperation. He pulls her toward her again, whispering, “Stay, please,” voice cracking the sound of thunder invades his mind again.

So she kisses him, tenderly, as the weather outside mimics the guns that scarred him so badly. She keeps her cheek next to his, her breathing steadying his racing heart. Every kiss seems to make the thunder a little less loud, the lightning a little less jarring.

He is hardly conscious of his own actions during the storm, drifting between an awareness of her lips on his and a feeling of being back in the hell of the trenches, hearing gunshots and seeing explosions flash before his eyes. Every thunderclap sends him across the channel, and every kiss brings him back. He is in limbo, floating between awareness and oblivion, longing for peace and for Mary’s touch to continue forever. She is holding him together, keeping him grounded, and he doesn’t know what he would do without her.

The storm drifts away, none too soon, and Mary has her head on his chest, dozing lightly. He must have fallen asleep as well, because he cannot remember the end of the thunder but the only sound now is soft raindrops against the window and Mary’s steady breathing.

He doesn’t want to wake her, but she is pressed up against his arm so that it has fallen asleep, and as he tries to shift gently in order to release the feeling of pins and needles, her eyes open, blinking up at him.

“It’s over,” she says, after listening in the silence for a few minutes. She sits up slightly and Matthew frees his arm. “Are you alright?” she asks in concern, gently running her finger over the residue of tear tracks on his cheek.

“Yes, I’m alright,” he says softly. “I told you there was a storm coming.” The joke is weak but he smiles as he says it.

“Did you?” she replies, relieved that his demons have not manifested themselves so terribly tonight.

He smirks. “On the ride home from the hospital. You weren’t listening to me.” He bites his lip as soon as he says it, well aware of the hard memories what he said could bring up. 

“Perhaps I ought to pay you more attention,” she says, after swallowing and trying to clear her mind of the other event so the day. 

He smirks, breathing out a sigh of relief. As she moves her face closer to his, he brushes a stray hair out of the way. “Perhaps you should.”

She lays down again, moving in closer to him, their cheeks touching and their bodies nearly overlapping. “I’m going to miss this,” she whispers. “Once we go back.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“What won’t be forever? Are you insinuating that my need for you will fade quickly away?”

He laughs, knowing that she is not serious. This is what he loves so much about being with her; they can talk about everything and nothing, and banter and argue in good fun as much as they like. Never has he found a more pleasant conversation partner. “No, of course not. In fact, I’m hoping it does the opposite. I hope that desire lasts forever. I would be the luckiest man in the world to have that.”

“In that case, you are the luckiest man in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've published a multichapter fic simultaneously on fanfiction.net and ao3 so we'll so how this goes. This is going to be a slowburn sort of fic and very angsty, but I promise everything will be resolved in the end because I am a huge MM shipper and I have to give them a happy ending... the writer in me doesn't want to tell you that but the shipper in me insists. I hope to be able to update this every other week. I hope you enjoy the fic and maybe leave a comment? Comments make writers very happy. Thanks for reading!


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